Panic Switch
by PCP
Summary: Sequel to PW. The war has begun. As treasured things are lost for the greater good, are the consequences too much, and, in the end, were his actions right or wrong? AU slash, DM/HP Complete.
1. Disclaimer and Story Notes

Disclaimer and Story Notes

(or, as twistyguru says "yeah, yeah, yeah, bitch, bitch, bitch" )

Title: Panic Switch

Author: paddycakepadfoot/unlisted piety/PCP

Summary: Sequel to PW. The war has begun. As treasured things are lost for the greater good, are the consequences too much, and, in the end, were his actions right or wrong? AU slash, DM/HP

Genre: Action/drama/romance/tragedy

Warnings: Violence, OC's (lots in the first story, more in the sequel), profanity, slash DM/HP only, mentions of abuse (physical), murder, mass genocide, character death, angst, fluff, gore, twisty plots, immorality, explicit torture, disturbing themes and controversial topics. Where PW was lighthearted, PS is not. That's heavy!

CC and Flames: I accept CC, it is valuable and golden in my eyes. Flames, however, are a pointless endeavor, and will be not only ignored but mocked profusely. Don't be a fool, stay cool.

Feedback: Email or site review. I respond to each individually.

Story Notes: Panic Switch is the sequel to Pistol Whipped. _You must read the first story to get this one. You will be entirely, completely, and irrevocably lost if you try and read this without the background of PW. _PS is finished, with the last few chapters planned but not written. Why, you ask? Excellent endings, I find, are better written in the here and now. Here's some questions and answers that might come up:

Q: Still updating Fridays?

A: Oh yeah. That system worked out pretty well last time. I want this out there and posted already!

Q: Will there be another story after this?

A: Nope. This is the end. Like that song by The Doors.

Q: Still responding to us?

A: I am. Though it may be a bad thing for some people who are probably tired of my nonsensical rants.

Q: Anything I absolutely have to know before reading?

A: PS is going to be pretty deep. While PW dealt with a lot of action and moral disputes, PS is the emotional and psychological part of the story. It's _darker_, if you can believe it. This is DM/HP all the way now. I will be focusing on their relationship a bit more, so if that's not your cup of tea, I apologize. It gets sad at times, but I make up for it. I do, I promise.

Q: You're bad at keeping promises. Why?

A: AL, I _will_ have your fic up and running by Christmas. Or you can hang me like the liar I am. I also promise that I'll keep my original promises. The sequels I talked about will happen. Definitely before I disappear from the site. And I'm bad at keeping promises because of the human condition.

Q: Are you writing an original?

A: The question really is, when am I _not_ writing an original? A question with a question.

Complaints I can see coming up:

C: NO! Why did you do that?

R: Because I'm a cruel, sadistic sociopath who lets out my anger through hp fanfic.

C: You missed an update date! For shame!

R: Give me a break, Nag McNagger!

C: Update faster!

R: No.

C: Such and such seems unrealistic!

R: Your idea of reality and my idea of reality are supremely different, Yoda.

C: DM/HP and Slash in general are _so_ overdone! I'm sick of it.

R: Your soap box can move to another street corner. I own this turf, man, so fuck off.

More Information: I need to fix that wordpress page. I haven't added anything to it because I suck. Bare with me.

Inspired by: Panic Switch by the Silverson Pickups.

To Readers: Welcome to the sequel! Thanks to everyone for sticking with me, and I hope I see new and old friends on this new story! Thanks for the continued support and awesome feedback. You make it all worthwhile. Special thanks to _Quince Paste _for the wonderful review that kept me on my toes during my vacation, and for also inspiring me to not lose an ounce of motivation for the sequel. I love you all!

Thank You: To Amazonia, the greatest beta in the world and my best friend for fucking ever. You mother hen me, keep me focused, let me vent, and make my world that much brighter. I adore you. Also, to everyone who reviewed PW with such enthusiasm and brilliance. I write for you.

_Enjoy_, and please review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, and Scholastic, respectively. All original characters are products of the author, as is the premise and plot. Copyright infringement is not intended.


	2. Chapter One

A/n: Welcome to the sequel! I'll keep my a/n short and sweet, k? _Thank you_ for the wonderful reviews for PW. You're all fucking wonderful!

A Few Responses: Supreme Dark Lady Moongoose: why you no log in so I can stalk you? Your review had so many awesomes in it that I about turned red permanently from blushing. There's only so much flattery I can take, you know! I get a big head! Ah, but your review had me grinning like mad, and I scared a few people, so I guess your not logging in (stalkstalkstalk) canbe forgiven. Thanks love! Popash123: Thank you! I actually am starting to convert PW and PS into an original. Ana: Hi, dear! Oh, you charmer you. I'll definitely take you up on your offer of positive energy. I need that shit pronto. Ah, but your reviews always have me smiling and laughing, so you're doing a great job! Adore ya! Act V: I love you so much it's not even funny. But hey, sometimes people gotta disappear. I know you'll be back. You're my creeper, after all. How's that rice shrine going by the way? You eat it yet? I would have. Yum. Catch you on the sly, Act V! Anon: Who goes by anon anymore? It's kind of taboo around here, or so I think. I don't know. Internets. Glad you liked PW! Hope you like this one too!

Warnings for this chapter: wordplay, politics, sort of cliffhanger, bad language, and mentions of slash.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter One

The suit and tie he was wearing made him look more confident than he felt. Certainly, the designer apparel had him looking fairly pound-note-ish to such a degree that he would have thought a chorus of _For He's a Jolly Good Fellow_ would have followed him on his way to Number 10.

People were generally less than kind to those who looked a bit wealthier or handsomer than them, so he wasn't too put-out about the lack of singing in his wake, especially when a rather fit young woman gave him the eye as he walked past. He winked at her, grinning at her fluttery giggles, and made a show of turning around to watch her sway down the road. Very pound-note-ish, indeed. He imagined how an introduction with her would go:

"I've a meeting just up the street, you know, very important. This is Downing, isn't it?"

"Surely not _Number 10_? To see the Prime _Minister_?"

"Lord Moppyhead himself. As well as a grand friend of mine, the President, you know?"

"Of _America_?"

"That's the one!" Here, he would develop a sly and teasing expression, add to it a small tilt of his chin, and solicit her (gentleman-like). "Say, after I've gotten my very important meeting done, how's about you and I—"

_Denny_!

Snapping out of his fantasy abruptly, Denny Brooks realized he was standing where the woman had left him, gazing into the reflection of a store window with a smug, vainglorious smile on his face. After a pause, he snarled in his head, _What_?

_That's the third time you've gotten distracted. It's five 'till, you lech! Leave the birds alone!_

His Henry sounded entirely chagrined. "I'm goin', I'm goin'," he muttered out loud, mutinously.

_You'd think you, of all people, the veritable slag that you are, would allow a man his sexual pleasures_, Denny said mentally.

Henry sighed. _Perhaps _after_ we settle things with the two most powerful politicians in the world, Den._

"Jack-the-lad, you can't deny your father some chief necessities," he admonished, but said nothing more as he approached the flashy wrought-iron gate. Before him, a very sinister looking officer stood atop the tallest step, glaring down at Denny with an air of vexation. "Hello, mate!" Denny greeted him, ignoring the pretence, "I've an appointment. Are you here for me? Where's your busby?"

The officer's lip curled and a sound suspiciously close to a growl trickled past his lips. _I rather like busbies, _Denny defended himself as the officer motioned him forward. _Don't see what he's got against them, aye, look-ye here, the infamous number ten! _

True to his eyes, the number on the ebony door was just as white and impressive as it was boasted. The house was long, Denny noticed, and rather antiquated. He looked at the outside as a practiced observer, taking in the notches and out-and-out holes in the sides of the building. The repairs that hadn't been done after shrapnel from the bombs had made their marks were most likely for the sake of firming the visible history of the house. Understanding the kitschy motif but not liking it, Denny reluctantly followed the officer through the door and into the impressive hallway.

_Good, Den, _Henry praised him. _Just keep your head down and that pistol in your pocket._

_You're denying me my necessities again, lad. In your company, I'll be flaccid forever._

_Jesus, _Hen nearly shouted in his head, _gross, Den, really!_

Grinding to a sudden stop, the officer paused in front of a lone, open entry. They were immediately greeted by a professional looking woman. The officer gave the woman a half-bow before going back the way he came with one last bellicose glare at Denny. The woman glanced at him carefully over her slim silver spectacles, a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. A badge on her left breast sported her identity; the picture seemed purposely unflattering. Her pale complexion and soft, curly brown hair made Denny smirk lewdly, but before he could plod her with winning blandishments, Henry gave him what could only be described as a mental ear pull. Fortunately, the woman started speaking just as Denny hissed in pain.

"Welcome to Number 10. I'm Kathleen Brandy, Public Relations Assistant to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and Head of Her Majesty's Government. If you will follow me, I'll escort you to the Minister's receiving room—"

Denny's mouth, which had dropped open at the staid and entirely serious recitation of the Minister's titles, immediately closed when _another_ lovely lady appeared before them. She ruthlessly shouldered Kathleen out of the way in order to stick a hand in front of Denny's face.

"Lauren Chandler," she introduced herself, her American accent particularly poignant after Kathleen's posh speech. "Public Information Assistant to the President of the United States of America."

The two women had a stand-off of sorts, Kathleen glaring at Lauren, and Lauren at Kathleen. Denny, though hankering to see a brawl between to wonderfully fit birds, thought it a bit unwise to cause mischief. Henry would not approve.

"Ladies," he interrupted them, smiling, "It's a pleasure to meet the both of you."

They blushed.

_I've still got it._

_It's the accent,_ Henry told him, impatient but also amused.

Kathleen gathered herself, clearing her throat and casting one last threatening look at Laura. "Right this way, Mr. …?" she drawled.

"Connery. Sean Connery."

The girls seemed to be holding back their snickers, obviously afraid of seeming slapdash in their work. As Denny followed them to a lavish room down the hall, he took care to gloat in his head. Unfortunately, his gay son just didn't appreciate his savvy at all. Go figure.

"This way, sir. The Prime Minister and the President are waiting for you," Laura said rather extravagantly. He bowed his way in, feeling very eminent, and came face to face with the two formidable, impressive, and daunting leaders of the free world.

_Stop, Den, you're killing me_, Henry choked out through his laughter.

They certainly _seemed_ normal, no matter their political worth. In fact, the Prime Minister (who was ridiculously young in Denny's opinion) looked to be sweating profusely despite the comfortable temperature of the room. The President appeared to be an eager sort of man, enthusiastic for no other reason than he could be, personifying the very image of a little boy promised a treat. As if aforethought, the moment Denny walked in the, President hopped to his feet and stretched out a hand.

"Ah, nice to meet you, nice to meet you," he greeted Denny cheerfully, his handshake quite vigorous. "You know who I am, of course. But I have not had the pleasure. Your name, sir?"

Denny swallowed his derision for this man. "Wallace," he informed them a bit sarcastically, "William Wallace."

The Prime Minister suddenly coughed out a laugh. Denny sat down as the two ladies who had greeted him asked if he would fancy a drink. He smiled charmingly.

"Scotch on the rocks," he told them before turning to the President and the Prime Minister. "Drinks, gentlemen?"

"Oh, let's see, I'll have a scotch as well," the President said favorably, "since Mr. Wallace has such excellent taste!"

The Minister cleared his throat. "Tea, please, thank you," he ordered.

When they had left, an awkward silence drifted among them, what with the President far too excited for his own good (just about red in the face with impetuosity) and the Prime Minister seeming frightened of even speaking, lest he look the fool. Denny smacked his lips and nodded decisively.

"You're a bit young to be the minister of anything," Denny pointed out to the Minister. "If I'm free to say," he added when Henry scoffed in his head.

Chuckling merrily, the President nudged the Minister companionably, though it made the man jump in fear and grin nervously. "That's what I said!" he exclaimed, "Word for word, sir!"

"I _am_ young, yes," the Minister finally spoke. "But I was elected by the good people of Great Britain, and if they don't seem a good judge of character—"

"Yeah, well," the President interrupted, looking at his fellow leader with a mystified smile. "It's England, isn't it?"

The drinks arrived, and some of the tension made by Denny's comment left with the promise of alcohol and caffeine.

"I wouldn't have liked a young Minister, I'm sorry to say," Denny couldn't help but whine.

"You didn't vote, I gather," the Prime Minister snapped, appearing defensive. "What with being in prison."

_Sharper than he looks, this young fellow, _Denny thought, but he wasn't unrehearsed for this eventuality.

He grinned wolfishly. "Am I that notorious?" he asked.

The Prime Minister carefully set down his teacup and saucer. "You are, Mr. Brooks. I knew who you were the moment you arrived. What I wonder is why your leader would send an escaped convict to this meeting. Unless, of course, you are the head of this revolution of sorts?"

"Escaped convict!" The President started just as Denny scoffed. "Me?"

I'm not the leader, no," Denny continued, finishing his drink and leaning forward. "And he sent me because you'll likely have to pardon me if we're going to work together."

"I…" the Minister paused and wiped his brow. "I'm not at liberty—"

"Sure you are!" the President cut him off, invading his companion's space to whisper furiously, "We _need_ their cooperation."

Inside of his head, Henry was dreadfully amused and assaulted by sniggers, which traveled through Denny's brain uninvited. He let out a small guffaw and cleared his throat.

"He is right, Minister," he spoke up mockingly. "You _need _my help."

The man wiped his forehead and exhaled noisily. "Yes," he breathed, looking like a cornered animal. "I suppose I do."

"That's settled then!" the President whooped happily. "Now, on to business…when can we meet this leader of yours?"

Denny sat back, his eyes still on the wriggling Minister, and said, "You're not likely to meet him at all, sorry."

"I simply must protest, Mr. Brooks," the Minister objected expediently. "Over three thousand people are dead because of him."

"Three thousand people are dead because of _wizards_, sir," Denny contradicted him. "But I will accept some of the blame on my leader's behalf. We did, indeed, attack first, and they retaliated, which _should _beconventional in _a war_."

"But the casualties…!"

"Are necessary, sir," he said forcefully. "We could have wished for a peaceable negotiation after the attacks, but the wizards chose to extend the hand of brutality. Which doesn't catch me unawares at all, considering how _violent_ they are."

The President shifted keenly. "I agree," he nodded. "Better us attacking first, rather than them staying hidden and taking advantage of our ignorance at any time."

In harmony, they both looked towards the Prime Minister, though Denny chose not to appear as pugnacious as the President. The man, now vastly conflicted, took a while to come to a resolution, but, when he did, he did not disappoint.

"I do not like wizards," the Minister said, and coughed a bit. "I don't trust them, and I have no doubt they would have attacked us in the future." He met Denny's eyes and said hesitantly, "I'm glad of our advantage."

"Hear, hear!" the President shouted. "Speaking of…what can you tell me about these guns?"

Denny smiled. "They make us invincible to wizards," he professed proudly. "We wouldn't have even thought of war if they hadn't have been invented."

"It has them shaking in their boots, I bet," the man laughed heartily.

With an ear on what Henry was telling him, Denny recited, "They are skeptical of the power of the weaponry, yes, and frightened, but they are too confident in their magic tricks to truly fear us. That'll change soon, markedly. Right now, they're distracted with their unstable economy."

"Those places that you destroyed," The Prime Minister began, raising a finger. "They were markets, yes?"

Nodding, Denny tipped a piece of ice into his mouth and chewed. "All markets, from every Wizarding foundation in the world. All business hubs, with banks. Banks run by creatures who have abandoned the failing government, having been oppressed by wizard-kind for centuries. With them, they took valuable resources, such as gold and specialized metals." He stopped and winked. "They're out of money, out of support, and out of time."

"Brilliant maneuver," the President complimented, raising his glass.

"What if they go after _our_ economy, Brooks?" the Minister countered tightly. "Have you thought of that?"

"We have, thank you," Denny huffed. "And that's why you'll be gathering the United Nations with the intention of—"

Startled, the Minister sat back as the President eyed him knowingly. "We were planning on it, Brooks," the President said.

"_With_ _the_ _intention_," Denny continued as if he hadn't been cut off rather rudely, "of combining monetary forces and military forces with the world leaders against the wizards. If they cripple one economy, another shall be allied to hold up the foundations. Besides all of that, our money is in multiple forms and too convoluted for them to truly destroy. They haven't a chance against a united front."

"You mean to say that they only depended upon the banks and one form of currency?" the Minister gaped.

Denny dipped his head. "Only gold," he agreed.

"How stupid of them!"

"Stupid, yes," he remarked. "But you don't understand their mentality, see? They were too arrogant to expect an attack from us. They believed, until a week ago, that their world was hidden and only vulnerable to attack from _other_ wizards. Equals, they thought."

Anxiously, the Prime Minister licked his lips. "I don't understand how _you_ knew they existed, or how you know so much about their government."

Laughing, Denny sat back and refilled his glass, topping off the President's while he was at it. "There are wizards who dislike wizards. Some of their own are on our side. They won't expect that, though they'll have quite the rude awakening when they realize the weapons that destroyed them so easily were _made _by magic. They think we're using nuclear power, of all things."

_I'd rather that be a last resort, to be honest, _Henry told him with a mental flinch.

_You scare me_.

"When you call the UN," Denny went on when the others remained silent. "You'll have to neutralize India and Japan. The Prime Minister of India is a wizard, and he'll be unlikely to join us. Likewise, the Minister of Japan's supports are almost all wizards. He's a puppet for them. Also, France will natter about until they declare indecision."

"As they always do," the President muttered nastily. "And what's this about Jawahar? He seemed like a nice man."

Denny agreed with a blink. "Powerful wizards are all about deception," he explained. "He will fight you on this and try to say the magical community of India has no wish to fight. Expose him; it will do well for morale. The Russians would approve, in any case."

"They like no better proof than public persecution, yes," the Minister said, grimacing at his lukewarm tea and giving a strained smile.

Denny handed them both folders. "Inside, you'll find the leaders and everything you could want to know about them. Included, also, are their sympathies to and proof that Prime Minister Jawahar is a wizard. Also, there's a list of attacks on us conceived by wizards in the last century, all unpunished and all ignored by the Wizarding government. The casualties from wizard involvement in our world are—"

"Six hundred thousand!" the Prime Minister howled. "Two hundred thousand of them citizens of Britain!"

"The Americas didn't do much better," the President said angrily.

"Your Hit Wizards are the cause of that," Denny told him, rather sympathetically. "They were under the assumption that keeping the Magical world secret meant killing our people left and right."

"Bloody _hell_," the Minister breathed.

"I'd use stronger words than that, Jimmy," the President snapped, his face now entirely red. "They'll be exterminated. Every last one of them."

"Now that's not on," Denny objected, holding out a hand. "Many wizards are on our side. What we want is for them to assimilate, to share their power with those they think could never use it."

"We've proved what we can do to them," the Prime Minister choked out. "The guns are obviously—"

"However true that may be, Minister, they'll need more convincing than that. An alliance with them would be unprecedented," Denny (or Henry) said. "A tie between two very capable worlds would lead to the advancement of all mankind."

_You're so bloody dramatic_, he admonished his son, only receiving a short laugh in return.

He leaned forward confidently. "Are you truly on board, Minister? This is perhaps the biggest movement in the history of the world. There is no choice, the war must be waged, and every loss is worth it. This is the time where we must believe in necessary evils, leave morality behind in order to form a new morality. A new dogma. In order, gentlemen, to create a world powerful enough to conquer anything, we must be united." Denny tapped the folder in the President's hand. "Or we will _fail_," he intoned.

There was a thoughtful silence, then, as they brooded over his words, and Denny sat back and relaxed minutely.

_Good work, Den_, Henry praised him.

"This is, er," the Minister began awkwardly, "quite a task for us. But I see the import of it." He cast a quick look at the President. "I'm onboard, Mr. Brooks."

"You know what I think, of course," said the President, waving a hand. "What is our next move?" he asked fervently.

"Rally the United Nations," Denny told them casually, "and we shall see who goes where. In the meantime, we'll begin to mass distribute the modified weapons."

The President grinned. "Now you're speaking my language! I'll call the men to arms!"

"They won't need any training besides an introduction to the guns," Denny affirmed. "The American and British armed forces are well-trained soldiers. The inventor has considered this. Should we expect them ready in a month?"

"We only need the guns," the President nodded.

Denny dipped his head in return. "Good. Meanwhile, we will continue our relentless attacks. While the wizards flounder to steady their economy and assure the people, we'll begin disposing of their most valuable leaders. Eventually, if they have not surrendered before then, they'll be so worn down that conquering them will be brilliantly straightforward."

"Will it be a long war, then?" the Prime Minister asked, cringing at the thought.

"With our weapons, with our numbers, and with our resources? No, not at all. Our fearless leader gives it less than two years."

"Two years to reshape the world?" the President jested, looking happy.

_Contrary to popular belief, it _can_ happen,_ Henry said.

"I have a bit of a problem," the Minister said suddenly. "There is an ambassador of sorts for the wizards. He's promised to visit from time to time, you see. They've a portrait in my office that, well," he paused and bit his lip. "It moves and talks, Brooks."

Denny lifted a shoulder. "Don't talk about confidential information in your office, then. Or outside your office, come to think of it. A wizard is in place of your assistant secretary, anyway. We'll take care of that. Now, who's this ambassador?"

The Prime Minister went very red. "Young boy, very…offensive. His name is Potter," he confessed, his dislike for the kid disclosed.

Denny simply had to laugh. "Harry Potter? Oh, he won't be a problem. He's a wanker, Minister, but all bark and no bite."

_All bark! _Henry repeated, bemused. _Ha, very, ha, Den. _

"Your leaders in the UN might have the same problem. Relay the order of complete confidentiality to them. We have eyes in the Wizarding world, and if they propose an assassination attempt, we'll hear about it. I don't know what my fearless leader has planned for your safety, but I can guarantee he has _something_ up his sleeve."

Henry scoffed. _It's already goddamn taken care of, you bitch. _

"In fact, I wouldn't doubt our leader has already taken care of it," Denny said, nudging Henry with his mind.

"Thought of everything, you guys have." The President smiled appreciatively, rocking back in his chair.

"I…I'm at ease with this plan, as well," the Minister stuttered. "I would have wanted to meet your leader; however, he sounds like a brilliant man."

Mentally, Denny guffawed. _Shut up, you old codger_, Henry hissed. _Now tell them—_

"And how do you know my leader is a brilliant _man_ and not a brilliant _woman," _Denny countered, ignoring Henry. "Or my leader could be a hermaphrodite. Reckon that!"

_Jesus, Den_.

"You've been saying _he,_" the Minister said. "I just thought—"

"_Generic _he," Denny interrupted snootily, in obviousness. "But besides how brilliant he _or she_ is," Denny continued, sobering. "He could very well just be an ugly sort of courageous."

"I like this convict!" the President stated cheerfully. "You tell your leader for me that the Minister and I are on task! And I'll be having a talk with the MCS76 when I get home."

The Prime Minister had looked, for the entirety of the meeting, as if he were holding in a question with all of his considerable might. It burst out of him so quickly that Denny was startled. "When will we inform the public?"

"I had that question as well," the President said. "You read my mind, Jimmy!"

He raised an eyebrow. "I you're not adverse to the idea, after the meeting with the United Nations, we've prepared a speech for you. It's bold of us, and I am sorry," Denny said unapologetically.

Denny sat back and scratched his neck. "All of you, every leader, will read the same speech. Puts on a front of unity, doesn't? Though hopefully it won't just be a front, eh?" He chuckled. "Our leader wants you to trust him, but not too much. You know." Denny shrugged. "_Politics_."

Even though it seemed the Minister had more queries, Denny nodded imperceptibly at Henry's bid to leave. He reached into his pockets and brought out the twin pistols Henry had given him, both beautifully manufactured Smith & Wesson revolvers with a carved symbol on the barrel. Denny set them down on the tea table in front of them and finally noticed the shocked looks on each leader's face.

"What?" he questioned inelegantly. Then he flushed, mortified. "Oh."

"You've got balls, Mr. Brooks," the President said, getting over his shock and starting to hoot.

The Prime Minister wiped his brow. "I've never met a man brave enough to draw a weapon in here. You're lucky we're alone, Denny Brooks," he warned, still rattled.

Scowling, Denny said, "Our fearless leader has a nasty sense of humor." And, sure enough, Henry was laughing like hell in his head.

"Besides all that," he went on. "We don't communicate through any means but these pistols. I have faith that you both know how to load one?" Denny waited for their nods. "Good. Keep the bullet out of the chamber. You only get one, and it's not for shooting. Load the gun when you need to talk to one of us."

"This is a very nice gun," the President murmured, awed.

Denny smiled. "Guns are the new currency, Mr. President. We only want you to load it for _important _matters. My fearless leader doesn't care if your lady's being a ham. Remember, only _important _things."

"This is…magic?" the Minister asked, looking wary. He grew even more frightened when the President spun the chamber and it clicked into place; he was aiming at the Minister's chair with a laugh.

"Magic and science," Denny corrected. "Norms that won't be so shocking when we win the war, sir."

He held out a hand, and they complied, realizing the meeting was over. "We'll be in touch,

Minister, Mr. President," he said with a grin.

"You're off then?" the Minister said unnecessarily, sounding oddly disappointed.

"Back to New York, as it were," Denny was at liberty to say. "Got a lovely little place there, and I'm in need of a kip."

"New York?" the President said, and then grinned. "And I presume your fearless leader is one of ours? An American?"

Though the Prime Minister had struggled during the entire meeting to not be put-off by the Presidents immaturity, he flushed at the thought of the leader of the revolution happening to be an American. Denny looked between them with an amused tilt of his head.

"Sorry to disappoint," Denny chortled. "Our leader isn't a yank; rather, he's a right side more English than our bloody Minister over here."

Seeing the glee turn to mild annoyance on the Minister's face was priceless, and Denny bowed and showed himself out. He was free to laugh once his feet hit Downing Street, and he straightened his suit proudly. Denny rather thought he'd done a bang up job of it all.

_You have, dad_, Henry told him, very satisfied sounding. _I'm sorry for doubting you_.

Denny scowled at the reminder of their squabble before the meeting. He rolled his eyes at Henry's desire to put _Frankie_ in front of the two leaders. His stubborn conceit had won out in the end, and all had turned out particularly well.

_Aye_, he thought as he brought out his Portkey. _I'm fucking inspirational. Does this mean I can get my dick wet now?  
_

Henry sighed.

.o00o.

"_Crushed Adder scales_, Potter." The man had a gift for communicating justhow stupid Harry was with the simplest of words. "Not diced! _Crushed_," he snapped.

"It says diced in the book, Snape," Harry felt the need to point out.

"Does it?" Snape retorted with faux surprise. "Well, then, you'd best dice them, since you're paying _the book_ to teach."

From above the simmering cauldron, the heat rising and suffocating warm, Harry inched closer to the surface of the bubbling potion and then quickly drew back, his eyes searching the Potions master's suspiciously.

"That was sarcasm, right?"

Snape let out a very loud sigh. "Yes, Potter, that was sarcasm. If you'd rather someone or something else help you pass your O.W.L.'s, by all means…" he waved a stained hand at the book open in front of them. "In the meantime, while I am on your generous payroll, it might be wise to listen when I tell you to _crush the scales!_"

Harry grinned. "No need to get your knickers in a knot, sir," he said before doing as he was told.

"Do you, in that stagnant mind of yours, know why I have asked you to crush them?"

Snape seemed to be talking to himself rather than Harry, displaying, rather blatantly, that he did not expect an answer to what he thought was a far-too-complicated question. Harry rolled his eyes to the side.

"Because diced pieces of scales will burn slow, reacting with the essence of woodbine, but when they're crushed they'll burn fast, allowing for the addition of the belladonna stems, quickly decreasing the potency but strengthening the next ingredient."

"No, you…" Snape stopped himself. "That's correct," he said, appearing so surprised that the vicious commentary he had used for the better part of the hour finally, _miraculously_, came to an end.

"It's chemistry, really," Harry muttered idly, knowing it would rile the man. He was right. Again.

"The subject of Potions is not the subject of chemistry!" Snape hissed. "I've told you time and time again: it has little to do with Muggle dalliances in simplified elements!"

"Chemistry Nazi," Harry accused him, waving a finger. "Perhaps if you looked into the subject, you wouldn't think chemistry quite unworthy of being compared to Potions," he prodded with a grin.

"You have told me enough!" Snape nearly shouted, red in the face like a ripe and rather distressed tomato. "This trial and error business is a mockery of the systematic and intellectual procedures of Potions. Your explanation of _throwing things together and seeing what happens_ is entirely foolish!"

Harry scratched his neck. "I'm not the end-all-be-all in chemistry, that might not be the right definition, you know."  
"It's absurd! We do not simply cross our fingers to ensure that our experiments will not cause a number of insalubrious effects. Neither should Muggles, for that matter!"

"Insalubrious, huh?"

Snape went on, ignoring Harry's wily comments during his diatribe. Harry turned the heat down on the Bunsen and continued to stir, careful to go widdershins under Snape's careful eye, since he had finished his angry fit and was watching Harry silently.

Harry scoffed. "_I've _told you it's nothing like that. Chemists know the properties of each element, and they take the correct actions to _prevent_ 'insalubrious effects.'" he argued. He didn't progress any further on the topic, choosing to nettle the man about something else. "And, really, can't you say, _it's not a roll of the dice, ace. You always gotta be prepared for a buggered experiment, _rather than all that roundabout nonsense you just went on about?"

Snape's eyes spat fire. "Am I not speaking idiotically enough for you?" he snarled.

"You are, sir," he said, finally stepping away from the potion that was _exactly_ the correct thickness, color, and aroma it was supposed to be. _Ha! There. _"I just think you're a prick with a bad attitude."

"Coming from a salaciously obtuse young man such as yourself, forgive me if I find your opinion erroneous."

"Fuck you."

Snape moved toward the cauldron and observed it closely, his hair greasing from the heat. Harry felt greasy himself, but knowing a shower waited for him in his rooms soothed his shocked vanity.

"Acceptable," Snape said reluctantly, which meant Harry had done a beautiful job. He turned off the fire completely and watched as Snape strutted over to his log to jot a mark.

"I'm doing well, aren't I, Professor?"

Receiving positive enforcement from the man was often like pulling teeth, but fortunately, Harry didn't take Professor Snape too seriously, and so was never expecting much in the first place.

Today, however, Snape seemed to be taking the contemptuous but non-violent approach to Harry's provocations.

"Yes, Potter," he responded, looking up from his books to deliver this insight with a scathing stare. "I am overwhelmed and pleased with your brilliance in my most preferred subject. Please cease paying me, for your superb aptitude is more than enough compensation for my instruction."

It was delivered in such an impressively straight-faced, deadpan manner that Harry burst out laughing. "You're so fucking funny," Harry told him sincerely.

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to shag? We're a match made in heaven."

"I was under the impression you were monogamous as of late. And if your idea of heaven is real, I'd rather the fire and brimstone, if you don't mind. Now get out."

Harry grinned as he cleaned off his hands at the tap and grabbed his coat. "I'm going," he assured, making for the portrait door. He paused on his way out and couldn't help but make a common and always infuriating remark. "If it's little," he said as Snape gave a warning growl, "I don't mind. Size doesn't _always_ matter."

He barely dodged the jar of beetles Snape threw at him, the third batch of ingredients he would have to replace this week, and laughed all the way to his chambers.

.o00o.

Instead of doing something even mildly productive, Henry found Frankie reclining unreservedly on his sofa, watching _Top Gun_ and commentating on various parts of the film. His excited expression likely meant someone had their shirt off, and Henry gave up sneaking quietly and trundled through the room with a glare. Frankie seemed apologetic when he saw him, immediately lowering the foot rest attached to the seat and grinning tightly.

"How are you, Henry?" he asked, warmly shrugging away his laziness.

"Does John know you're a fan of _Top Gun_?" Henry questioned seriously, sitting on the sofa.  
Frank licked his lips as he turned the film off. "That was the first time I've ever seen it," he lied.

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You were quoting that shit. _Quoting_," he mentioned.

Straightening up in his seat, Frank sniffed in an affronted manner and said, "Don't tell him," as if determined not to beg.

"Are you sure? He, like every manly man in our world, positively _adores_ that movie," he teased, unable to stop when Frankie had that sour look on his face.

"Henry…."

"Frankie…."

Frank sighed. "What're you doing here?" he blurted out instead.

Relaxing into his seat, Henry lifted a shoulder and jostled his pocket for a cigarette. "I was hoping Rashidi would be here, actually, but I suppose you'll do," he explained, blowing smoke towards Frank.

"Oh, I'm flattered," Frankie retorted, jokingly cynical. "What's the problem?"

"_This_ is a problem, one of many," he said, drawing out the letter from his coat and placing it on the tea table. Frank took it with a quick, nervous glance at him. As he read, Henry got up and poured them drinks, inhaling deep puffs of smoke to keep himself calm. The back of his throat burned harshly at the mix of indulgences, and he closed his eyes briefly as a wave of indifference spread over him.

"Well," Frank coughed, putting the letter down, "Fuck."

"My thoughts exactly," Henry nodded, handing him his drink. "Oscar always said Kort Lukasz was a stubborn old codger, but this is ridiculous."

"I have no idea why he would blame you for Oscar's death. And this cousin of his. Well, yeah…there's some blame, but not all of it. He's fucking crazy," Frank decided.

Henry looked away from him. "I'd anticipated those caught in the crossfire making trouble for us, but Lukasz's cousin? God is laughing at me…" he murmured, tipping the rest of the drink into his mouth.

Sitting back with his glass propped up on his stomach, Frankie eyed the letter and then stared at Henry intently. "What exactly does he mean by a Blood Feud?" he queried curiously.

"Kort's a squib," Henry groaned, stubbing out his smoke. "A Blood Feud is an old Wizarding practice. What he wants is a war that involves my blood against his blood, where no one from outside his or my lineage can fight. I can't go after anyone that isn't his blood, and he can't touch anyone that's not my blood. It's a vengeance call, and since I've killed two of his cousins, he's looking to repay me in kind."

"But," Frank stopped him, alert, "do you _have_ any family?"

Henry gave a short laugh. "I do, Frankie, but they're not people I care much about. Kort will go after them, undoubtedly," he said, pouring another drink.

"How the fuck would he know where they are? F.B.I.? C.I.A.?"

He grinned. "You're forgetting magic, Frankie, but I'm counting on him not knowing where they are," Henry told him. "Kort needs my blood to find them, and I'm stingy with my blood, but in the event that they _are_ able to track my family, I'll get an advanced warning. Eyes and ears, mate. Lukasz won't expect me to use them as bait."

Frank shook his head. "Wouldn't it be easier just to kill him?"

Henry shifted in his seat and huffed. "And how do you propose I do that? If he knows about Blood Feuds, which he should if he's called one, he's probably got a few wizards protecting him and the rest of his family. Never mind the strong charms he's got them under, the underlining issue is that _I'd_ have to go in person. No one else can fight."

Going in person was out of the question. Henry didn't need Kort or any of his Wizard guards seeing his face, knowing his _name_, at least not so early in the game. Frank merely raised his eyebrows but nodded in partial understanding. His casual acceptance was a trait Henry quite liked about him.

"So what's next?" the man said, smiling flatly.

Now that was the question. Henry scowled. "We wait, which I absolutely _hate_ doing, but I will concede in favor of there being no alternative."

"Sounds plausible," Frankie remarked as he topped off his drink. Henry put aside his second glass with the intention of not having anymore for the night. He was pissed off enough. "What did you need to talk to Rashidi about?"

"I wanted to know how his men were taking to the guns."

Frank suddenly chuckled, a warm sound full of appreciation Henry had never heard from him when Rashidi was on their minds. "Can you imagine? Rashidi's sent a missive telling me they are taking to them well. The men sent this!" he hooted, jumping up from his seat and passing a surprised Henry.

He grabbed up a card on the mantel of the fireplace, shoving it at Henry with one last guffaw. There was a bear on the front of the card, and it was holding a giant red heart that said, 'Thank you _so _much!' Inside were the signatures of Rashidi's men, with little comments and drawings that only served to make Henry think they were all completely mad. He couldn't help but laugh, though.

"This is hilarious," he choked out.

"Yeah, it is," Frank agreed, taking the card back. "Rashidi has a good sense of humor, I'll admit that."

Putting the missive back on the mantel, Frank turned when Henry suddenly laughed again. It looked completely bizarre underneath the upraised portrait of Frank's father and beside two original Colts raised up on a plaque.

"It looks gay as hell up there, I know. John's already told me," Frank added resignedly.

Once he had sobered, Henry smiled and said, "I also wanted to thank Rashidi for getting me Guillermo."

Frank froze as he sat down, gazing at Henry unsurely. "He got Guillermo?" he asked with real alacrity.

"He did." He raised a shoulder and crossed his legs, lighting another smoke. "Apparently, Guillermo has been notifying Mina Novikov of our plans, and, thanks to Rashidi, Guillermo is now our spokesperson for the other Lords. He's slowly rounding up the bigger bosses to our side. Even some wizards."

Leaning back with shocked pleasure, Frank swallowed and blinked. "Well, I'd be happy, but I want to know what Guillermo wants," he finally said.

Henry shrugged. "I have no idea. The Guillermo family is respected everywhere, but they _are_ known for their spite. I can't imagine what Alejandro wants for his help, but I don't think it can be good," he confessed with an impassive toss of his head.

"There's Rashidi to consider," Frank put in, cracking his knuckles. "If he got Guillermo, some kind of bargain had to have happened. They could be in cahoots."

Bemused, Henry gave him a strained smile. "I've considered it, though I kind of can't believe you used the word _cahoots_. Too much _Top Gun_ can't be healthy, Frankie," Henry warned.

"You're a fucker, you know that?" Frank sneered defensively.

He waved the man's anger away. "Rashidi can't have promised his guns, this much we know. They're aren't on the market, and every single one, down to the archetypes, are heavily guarded. He would need my clearance to even order _one_ more than his men need. But the guns not being what he might've bargained doesn't rule out the thousand other things he could have bartered with," Henry admitted, frustrated.

"I never liked Rashidi," Frankie said to him heatedly.

"_I_ like him," he stated, with a hint of rebuke in his tone of voice. "I don't trust him, but I like him."

Frank glared. "A weakness for Rashidi, eh? Not good, Henry, not good," he said.

Henry rose from his seat and walked over to Frank in order to clap him on the back briefly. "No," he said as he pulled away and out of Frank's space. "I've no problem with killing the people I like," he cheeked.

Grimacing, Frank stood up as well. "Thanks for that, Sparky."

They made towards the door together. "Oh," Henry said, looking as though he'd almost forgotten to bring something up. "Watch out for the Hit Wizards, will you? They've defected from the American government."

"What?" Frank stopped. "Why?"

"Well," Henry said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "They were sort of fired. The government gave them an ultimatum, but they chose unemployment rather than joining us. There'll be quite a few of them out for blood, just to warn you."

"What if they expose—"

"They never knew my real name," Henry cut him off, grinning. "And if they had, I would know. I've put a taboo on it."

"You've _what_?"

Henry shoved his hands into his pockets. "It's a simple spell, really. I tweaked the original a bit, however. Whenever a person wishing me ill says my real name, I can track where it came from. The Dark Lord used it in the first war."

Frank was impressed, Henry could tell. "Now that's a nifty piece of trickery," he complimented, seeming pleased. "Thought of everything, haven't you, Hen?"

As he slid half-way out of the door, Henry paused and had to laugh. "No, Frankie, I'm treading on thin ice. But don't tell anyone I told you so," he said, partially teasing, but mostly serious.

"You honestly think the consequences applyto _you_?" Frank questioned with a mystified frown.

Henry turned, looked at the man closely, and blinked. It was such an _odd_ query. Noticing Henry's rather pained expression, Frankie gave a contrite smile and made to speak. Henry stopped him quickly by saying, "Consequences apply to everyone, you know? Especially me, maybe me more than most. But punished people are always equal. Don't think me exempt, please."

Frank knew he had pissed Henry off somehow, though he wasn't sure where the insult in his unthinking question had been. But having nothing more to say, Henry closed the door and left Frank standing there.

.o00o.

Jana Van Rued had been more useful than Kort would have ever dreamed. As the head of the Lukasz legacy, he had immense pull in political matters amidst the family. When Oscar had grown old enough to be married, Kort had looked at the potential alliances carefully. Jana had been the only worthy woman among them.

She was powerful and ambitions and she was already tied by blood to their family, since her grandmother had married a Lukasz. It wasn't well known that Jana had been his family, but Oscar had known, and, at first, Kort thought his disagreeable attitude towards her stemmed from this relation.

He was wrong. Oscar had been inclined to his own sex, a preference every Lukasz simply could not abide. They were loyal to blood, as it had been since the last head in their family had imposed the traditional beliefs before he had died. Kort himself was a squib, but his father had been a powerful wizard – the very last magic-user in the Lukasz family, in fact – who had taught him to uphold the morality of blood. His death had been the end of any witches or wizards born from the Lukasz line.

Jana had been perfect for Oscar, since they would have had _magic_ back in the bloodline, but months had turned to years, and when Oscar went to the Americas as a partner to his family's business, Jana was still without child. Kort had given up changing his cousin, and he enlisted Jana to follow her ambitions in New York, approving whole-heartedly her decision to join the Mercenaries Guild of Italy.

And then the boy had shown up.

He was well-known in certain circles, mostly as the son of the iniquitous Denny Brooks, but the moment he had set foot in New York, Jana had contacted him and told him of their problem. And the boy was one hell of a _problem.  
_

Henry Brooks was a wizard, and, with his power, he had frightened the usually imperious Janavich Van Rued into action.

The plans had gone forth then, moving with a fire's speed towards triumph, but then they'd suddenly halted, seemed to stop when Brooks had brutally killed Jana. And then their plans were finally put to an end by Brooks and his destruction of the Mercenaries Guild. When Kort had heard of their demise, he had realized, very suddenly and coldly, that Henry Brooks was a bigger player than he had ever imagined. He had known that there was going to be a war.

But Kort had an unseen advantage. Henry Brooks did not know about the Archives, and Jana had placed something there before she'd died.

He walked down the short hall of the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute in Venice, heading toward the thin staircase that would wind him underground to the lower levels. Victor Massimiliano had been clever to put the Archives in Venice and not Vatican City. If his Order was to be destroyed, its history would remain in writing.

Not many knew of the Archives, most certainly not the lowly mercenaries who worked for the Guild. Kort was imparted with this information through Jana, who had briefly had an affair with Victor when Oscar continued to refuse to lay with her. She was allowed the knowledge of the Archives for her services rendered to Victor. Though, in body and marriage, it was betrayal, Kort was not complaining.

The staircase led to a door, which led to a hall and another door. He opened it and admitted himself into the underground cavity. It was stacked ceiling-high with shelves, full of neatly lettered boxes, some of them organized by name, location, dates, or loyalties. He found "Henry Brooks" beneath the crest of Brooks and the Guild, marking the boy's father as an ex-member. He reached inside and pulled out a folder, discarding it for the sachet at the bottom of the box. Wrapped around the envelope was a very familiar talisman, burnished with rubies.

There was a short note.

_Kort,  
_

_Call a Blood Feud, for our family will not survive with out it.  
_

_Jana  
_

He emptied the sachet into his hand and couldn't help but grin. Putting the contents in his pocket, he made for the exit, envisioning the end of one of the greatest threats to the Lukasz family in a long, long time, reinstating the name _Lukasz_ into magic and into the world. Kort left the Archives entirely pleased, the vial of Henry Brooks's blood nestled close to his chest.


	3. Chapter Two

A/n: What an overwhelming response! Thank you so very much! Keep it up, darlings. Also, a quick plea for help: someone PM'd me about three months ago offering to send me _Feeling_ _This_ which I lost and she/he had saved. Find them. I _need_ it! HELP.

A Few Responses: Ana: lol, yep, I'm back! Bet you thought you'd gotten rid of me. Good to hear from you Ana, I'm very happy you followed me to the sequel! I would have been sad if you hadn't, because I adore your reviews and the positivity you send my way. Sincerely, you're awesome. I do hope you enjoy the next chapter, and that you'll keep me posted on how well I'm doing in your opinion. You know I value it! Jennifer: LOL, your enthusiasm totally caught. I was yelling with you, and I'm not sure what I was yelling about. Perhaps I just wanted an excuse to make noise.

Dedication: To Amazonia. I love you. I'm eating. Are you sleeping?

Warnings for this chapter: long, introspective character studies, violence, some gore, drama, and politics.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Two

The firelight cast a golden patina across his skin. Sometimes, it would flicker across the smooth planes of his bare back, across his shoulders, his face – like a soft sort of magic that couldn't possibly keep still. Draco had never had a preference for skin, but with so much of it in front of him, looking like rich cloth that was as smooth as silk, he found himself drawing closer, almost touching it. His breath raised up tiny bumps, fascinating and thrilling in their happy predictability.

While winsome, there were blemishes on the body before him. He could honestly say he would have hated it if it was unmarred. His fingers hovered over the hump of a shoulder, his eyes following the scars carefully. Draco put his hand in his head, towering over the huddled form next to him, and speculated on the scars' origins. It was late enough that his reflections would not be interrupted.

There were two starburst marks, dotting the sleek skin like sideways eyes. One bloomed where his shoulder met his neck, another sat where his lung would be, hollowed there as if it had been dug at with a trowel. Matching circular scars lay on his chest, only slightly to the left, Draco knew, and he wished he could examine those as well. Perhaps he could lay pliant and calm, as a specimen for only Draco to dissect. He reached across the slumbering boy and drew lines with his finger, following the trail of a slice that went from shoulder to torso, the stripe that had a wily resemblance to a burn, and the small but deep incision that could only be the tip of a knife, a sliver of metal that had sunk into the precious skin like a needle threading through tough linen.

At the present moment, Draco was sure he wouldn't ask where the wounds came from, or why they were there, simply because, he thought it likely, he didn't care enough to want to know.

He was consciously aware that this was a lie, and they both knew it.

Draco had changed, voluntarily or not. Harry made the mistake of expecting some sort of drastic transformation, but it had come on subtly and silently. He treated Draco like a brittle sort of child, coddled and innocent in every way. The worst part, perhaps, of their strange dance around each other, was the way Harry felt he had to coax Draco into relations of the sexual sort. It rankled Draco to no end, and that had changed him. Just as Harry probably thought it would. Because the boy revolutionized everything he touched.

The hatred for Harry was there, burning like lust and aching like love, and Draco could not tell himself that he would give up on their vindictive contact. Because it wasn't all hate, not anymore, and tearing himself away would be dishonest. One of the changes wrought from their coupling had been a rather obtuse distaste for lies. Mockingly, Harry was never-endingly truthful with him, emphasizing the betrayal Draco had committed and laughing, laughing at him. It was also a bid for a brawl, a crooked finger welcoming him towards the impossible fire, to fight forever just as long as they were together forever.

It worked. Draco approached every time, hot and hoping. At times, when he was engaged in this sort of meditation, Draco felt safe enough to mull over how it started. A glance, a breath of attraction, a few sly words, and he was _burning_. His world had gone up in flames the moment Harry Potter became something more than a body and a brain to him. The vision wasn't at all beautiful either. From the beginning, they had melted together in the heat of it, and, now that the fire had settled, they were beginning to settle.

They both wondered what the hell to do with each other.

They knew the baser points of their personalities. Harry was stubborn, entirely too clever, ambitious and extremely inconsiderate. He was also attractive – like everything dangerous seemed to be – unfailingly loyal, and passionate. Very passionate.

Draco was a snob, sheltered, prejudiced and prone to intense bouts of envy. He happened to be ridiculously handsome, too, and he certainly was no push-over in terms of magic and power. Likely, those particular assets were what had attracted Harry in the first place. Draco knew he'd been drawn because, well, who _wasn't_? He had been caught, quite nicely, really, and they had both played their games and had come out (almost impossibly) not at all worse for wear.

Sure, Draco had destroyed his family's reputation and had proved to Harry he was untrustworthy, but he had his facilities, didn't he? Harry hadn't seemed impaired by his betrayal either, so there should have been nothing for them to worry about. At least not with each other.

Only, somewhere along the line, Harry and Draco had decided to _keep_ each other. The trap door hadn't opened, Draco hadn't escaped, but, then, neither had Harry. As the raging inferno of their meeting finally simmered down to a smolder, they had changed to adapt. Draco found himself doing things he'd never done before, had never _thought _of doing before, and he grew paranoid that with every day he passed in Harry's company, more and more of his character would be lost.

He had no idea if Harry was in any similar state, and really couldn't bring himself to care. Awkward dissociation was what Draco was sure they suffered from. Awkward, god-awful, stubborn dissociation: They knew each other intimately, but they were sure they were strangers. It was _hell_.

There were different opinions on the manner of their relationship, of course. His mother, particularly, thought his new attitude an improvement and Harry's attentions quite adorable. She claimed that the Draco she once knew, the one who spoke without thought, was now often reserved and lacking his usual insolence. He spoke only when the moment called for it, and, when he chose to voice his opinion, it was less predisposed and puerile. His mother was _pleased,_ and Draco knew she thought Harry wonderful for having done it. Her approval of his bed partner only served to anger Draco.

Lucius merely thought it was about time that Draco grew up. He didn't like Potter, didn't like what the boy intended (though he knew little of the details), but the transformation of his son was enough to have Lucius grateful despite his censure. Draco couldn't blame his father for wanting someone to reign in his son because, now that he had grown up some, Draco could admit that his actions had been childish and reckless. Betraying Harry _had _been fun, but he had sacrificed his family name to one-up the boy. And how amusing was it that his actions were predicted, that Harry had gotten him over in the end, anyway? Draco wasn't laughing, but he could appreciate the play.

Now, here he was, hidden away as a wanted criminal. The night Harry had come to him, Draco had argued that he would simply go to the Ministry and tell them about Harry's plans to buy his freedom. It was the fit of fury and infantile revenge that he regretted now. His mother, objecting with her infamously cold logic, had put that idea down fast enough to deflate him.

"They won't allow you a pardon, Draco," she had said, watching his hands clenching painfully.

Her fingers had moved like spiders, carefully loosening their hold. "The Ministry could not afford to; the public would demand your imprisonment, or worse. You cannot think of underestimating Potter again, love; you have nothing left to bargain with."

It was a truth that had been agony to hear.

"Your mother is correct, Draco," his father had agreed, his eyes, a mirror of Draco's pale grey, were bright with weariness. "The Ministry is foolish, and though I do not agree with Potter on every point, he _will_ be the victor against the Ministry. You must take the boy's power into account. You cannot ignore it because of your petty rivalry."

"He's on the Muggles' side!" Draco said furiously. "He wants to give them weapons to destroy us!"

Lucius's sneer made him seem old. "That, I think, is an extreme part of Potter's soul that is best left alone. Expanding our world is not something I would pass up, however. Remember that the boy is a wizard, Draco, and he doesn't claim otherwise. His heritage is important to him, no matter what our eyes assume." He sighed before looking at his son closely. "Potter was merciful enough to give you a choice, Draco. Don't spit in his face and martyr the Malfoy name. None of us would benefit that way."

Feeling betrayed by his parents' words, Draco had given in, but had sworn he would hate Harry until the day he died. And when he _did _die, it would be on his own terms, and not Harry's. Never Harry's. Days later and Draco was rethinking. Time in the strange Muggle manor went by slowly, and so he had hours upon hours to simply _think_. He realized what Lucius meant, that Potter did not deny his status as a wizard, did not openly support Muggles (not even in the war with the Dark Lord), and was a master at playing the devil's advocate. There was no real _belief _in Harry, he'd figured out.

What did he _want_ then?

Draco knew what Harry meant to accomplish, the end result, the conclusion, but his explanation seemed flat. What then, was all that passion for? There was something missing in this world of Harry's, something Draco couldn't understand no matter how long he thought on it. He continued trying to unravel the boy over the last few months, picking away at Harry's resolve as well as his own. The interest in Harry continued, unbounded and ever changing. Like him.

Like them.

Done ghosting his fingers across Harry's skin, Draco leaned back onto his pillow. He settled in to watch and listen.

There was no doubt that Harry Potter was pleasing to look at. It wasn't ignorable, and it was so very poignant at times that Harry could perhaps command the masses with his charisma alone. Draco was fond of lovely things, or aesthetically pleasing partners, and he would think it was safe to say that Harry was the best sort of match a pureblood could make, in terms of attractiveness and of power. Harry was also experienced, Draco knew first hand, and confident in his own pleasure as well as in his lover's.

Maybe that was what Draco saw that made Harry not just handsome but beautiful. He watched as those shoulders undulated in slumber and noted the strain across the expanse of his back, even while asleep. He knew the cause was stress, from the New War, from everything riding on Harry because he had asked for it. He had wanted it. Harry treated it as if it were a duty to uphold, and that duty showed in every small expression, in every movement of Harry's body. What Draco once thought was arrogance was a severely deluded belief that the world would change when _Harry_ decided to change it. A slightly insane faith that scared Draco as much as it infatuated him. Now this… this, Draco could laugh at.

Failure wasn't an option, no, but there was no doubt in his mind that Harry was unsound. There would be results to this extravagant escapade of Harry's, but it might not be what the boy wanted, and Draco, who had no choice but to follow as both a close confidant and an untrustworthy stranger, would be there every step of the way. Harry Potter had warned him there would be no more choices, and Draco understood it and accepted it. But did Harry?

He smiled at the bronze land of skin before him, reaching out to shake Harry's shoulder harshly. The phone on the bedside table was vibrating. Harry murmured briefly before he finally heard the humming and reached for his mobile. He flipped it open groggily and said, "Hello?"

Draco laid back down on his back and stared up at the ceiling. _Harry_, he said in his head, calling for attention silently. _Harry, Harry, Harry.  
_

"What? Are you sure?"

_So important, Harry?  
_

"No, I don't know. I'll figure it out."

_Off again, Harry?  
_

"Alright, I'll be there in ten."

The phone snapped shut and Harry rolled out of bed. Before Draco could object, the beautiful skin he'd admired for the last hour was covered by a simple black shirt. Angry, though not expecting an answer, he snapped, "Who was that?"

"Denny," Harry said shortly, gathering up his shoes but not bothering to put them on. He finally turned to stare down at Draco, and what he saw in the blonde's stare back must have been odd because he started. "There was an attack in Russia," he volunteered, still staring.

"An attack?" Draco responded curiously, raising himself up onto his elbows.

"The Wizards went after the capital. Thousands are dead." If he wasn't mistaken, Harry was trying very hard not to smile.

_Harry, Harry, Harry.  
_

"Happy, are we?" he said softly, smiling so that the boy in front of him had permission to do so as well. The answering grin was charming.

"Not happy, per se," Harry confessed, holding his things in one hand as he ran a hand through his hair. "Russia has been divided ever since they learned about the New War and declared neutrality. The Muggle government decided not to do anything to Wizards if they kept to themselves, and the Russian Ministry of Magic said they would stay out of it. That didn't stop the shit-talking and aspersions. It caused quite a bit of tension," he said, pausing to grin again. "They attacked first, so we've got a war."

"So another country is up in arms," Draco said, feeling sardonic.

Harry lifted a shoulder, attempting to seem casual, only his excitement was more than apparent. "They're in," he affirmed, his eyes bright. "The UN was waiting on their alliance, and I was waiting for this to happen so that Mina Novikov would see things our way. It's all working out."

Draco sniffed. "I won't pretend to know what you're talking about."

Laughing, Harry leaned over the bed and gave Draco a tempting turn of his lip. "I wouldn't expect you to," he said, waiting for his kiss. Draco tapped his cheek with the back of his hand and glared at him dangerously.

There was a spark in Harry's eye, something rising up like a small ember, one that would begin a rather massive fire, and Draco smirked. Lust looked good on Harry, but it was even better when Draco was the one to instigate it. A violent glare passed between them, and then Harry tore himself away. He moved towards the door, and Draco sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. The firelight danced across the bed.

"Do you need help, Harry?" he asked, calling back the boy's attention.

Alarm made Harry's face seem innocent. Draco found he liked seeing that countenance on him, and he vowed to make it happen again. "I mean with the Russia business," he clarified, a bit smugly.

"What are you doing?" Harry questioned him abruptly, frowning.

Draco looked around himself bemusedly, showing poor Harry he didn't know what on earth he was talking about. He settled back, and that look, the one that Harry had never seen before, was back.

If he were in Harry's shoes, there would be only two things to do to counteract Draco's sudden change in demeanor. He would either have to walk away, pretend he'd never seen the shift, or confront it with anger and hostility. Draco knew it could go both ways. Of course, Harry made another move entirely. Of course.

_Harry, Harry, Harry.  
_

He was full of the other boy. His lips were taken and claimed, and Draco returned the kiss, battling back and touching with a ferocity he was no longer surprised about. They broke away, and Harry smiled at him.

"I like it," Harry whispered, and Draco scowled. "I suppose that wasn't your intention," he laughed, running his hand down Draco's arm. "You _can_ help, actually."

Draco was at least glad of that. He was tired of haunting the halls of the manor, unable to do anything so that it looked like he was always waiting for Harry to come to him. He was angry with Harry, hated Harry, and they both treated it with respect. Because there was more for Draco to feel, and he felt it.

"Go to Blaise," Harry told him. "He'll let you in on everything he's doing. It's a lot. He'll need the help."

Harry hopped off of the bed and said, calmly, ecstatically, "Thanks, love."

And then he was gone.

Rising from the bed, Draco put on his clothes with the intention of sending an owl to Blaise and getting something to eat. He stared at the door for a moment before he closed his eyes and grimaced. They would play their games, and trade their underhanded insults, until one or both of them were dead. Draco was getting better. Draco was growing up.

_Harry, Harry, Harry.  
_

He smiled. Love was funny.

.o00o.

Mina Novikov had quite a bit of trouble with diplomacy. Her father had, of course, versed her in the manners and customs of others, and yet Mina had never taken to it, simply because she thought it unnecessary.

There were a great many leaders she'd had to use her extensive tutelage to deal with, but she always grew weary as the meetings progressed, and her infamous bite, the one that she was supposed to reserve for outside of the political arena, came back with a terrible, frothing vengeance. Most found her abrasive and insulting, and Mina didn't really blame them. Unfortunately, she could no longer give her excuses for her temperament, for war had come to Russia and no mistakes would be tolerated. Not even her own.

Diplomacy was needed in open warfare, and she would have to stand with her country with no weaknesses. With no chance of failure.

Moscow's underground Wizarding community was a vast one. Almost half of the population was Wizard or Witch, if they weren't otherwise a familial derivative of the craft. Mina was not magical and had never been involved with that large society. In fact, the Novikovs had not boasted a magical born descendent for centuries, and they did not consider the lack of one a loss, especially not now. At the present, having a magical Novikov would certainly be a disadvantage.

Rumors had done ill to Russia. Many of the magical population had feared an attack from those without magic. So they had burned cities, well-known places of business, and had killed many of her people and many of her friends. The deaths of her men had not gone over well, and no amount of taught control could keep Mina from her raging. Russia was now besieged by civil war, and the Novikov family had no choice but to act.

She had predicted this happening with Alejandro not four months ago, and yet, she hadn't expected it so very soon. Most of the non-magical community did not understand why the attack had come, did not know of the world beneath their feet. The newly instated President, Sanka Alstrat, had not fully grasped the threat brewing over head, and he had come to Mina for answers. Mina could only tell him of the hidden world and how they worked, but not whether or not they would strike. Alstrat mentioned the UN's pressure to join the alliance, and Mina tried her hardest to persuade the President that it was something he was obligated to do before things got worse.

And they did get worse. Quickly.

Her words had been like prophecy: "On no uncertain terms should you _not_ join them," she'd told him in her dialect, and Sanka, who had been born and raised in Moscow, had trouble keeping up with it. "We have no choice. You must realize that Russia cannot be divided, and if we pick a side swiftly, the remaining magical peoples will have to choose as well. We do not want a first strike to declare war. Let us know where Russia stands."

They both were aware that Russia would be knee-deep in the war by the end of the week, but Mina was of the mind that the people would be quite unable to fight in secret. At least, in open warfare, she told herself, there was some control to be had.

The cooperation of the UN was an irrefutable necessity, and the UN needed Russia just as much, if not more. Meanwhile, Mina would speak with the man behind the war because, according to Guilermo, he was one of their own. He was a criminal.

She respected the man. How could she not, if nothing else than for his ambition, respect him? She did not agree with the pace of his war, but she knew that it would've had had to happen sometime. She only hoped deference served as an exemplary alternative to formal peacekeeping because Mina wasn't very good at playing nice on the best of days.

Waiting now in the parlor her father had used as a study, Mina fidgeted nervously and glanced at the old room. Dust lined both the ornate buttresses and the chintz sofa she was sitting on; souvenirs from all over the world decorated the parlor, displaying her father's less than parochial tastes. Mostly, the embellishments were an assortment of weapons.

A bardiche and a ceremonial halberd sat atop the mantel, and a cuirass accompanied by a traditional Attic helmet was raised beside the fireplace, looking about as ancient as effects were. On the opposite side of the room, a selection of fine wakizashi and short sword replicas had their lofty positions overlooking the sitting area. Perhaps the only ornaments not at all antagonistic were the Buddha covered in bronze coins and the sad little copper horse that had belonged to her grandmother. Even the curtains screamed a verbose sort of welcome, and she wondered how her father had ever expected ambassadors to feel comfortable there. Alejandro, at least, thought it was quite funny.

Her men stood at each corner of the room, silent and waiting. Mina grew tired of her own anxious dance and poured herself a drink. She imagined Frank McAllister indulging in Russia's strongest and had to laugh.

"Krupnikas," she said to the loitering guards, raising her glass. "Maybe I should have gotten _Bud Light_ for the American."

They laughed, and she knocked back her drink and smiled as it tore her throat to pieces. The door suddenly opened, and her guards immediately straightened. Mina put down her glass and turned toward the entrance expectantly. Her first thought was that her visitor was decidedly _not_ Frank McAllister. Alejandro had briefed her on this meeting, telling her that McAllister was a man in his forties and dark in complexion. It wasn't Denny Brooks either, who was apparently a big player in the western world, known to be a rugged, handsome Scotsman with the manners of a Neanderthal. Rather than the two men she would've expected, there was a boy. A beautiful young man who walked in with a weary expression that blatantly said, "Are we _there_ yet?"

Mina blinked. She rose to her feet as the door shut, and the boy moved forward with a warm smile. "Mina Novikov?" he asked tentatively, reaching out a hand.

"I am," she answered haltingly. "I…." she paused as the boy took off his coat and sat down. "I expected Frank McAllister."

"Frank was busy with Rashidi, who, much like you are, is also dealing with a civil war."

Mina realized she was still standing, so she dropped into her chair with a small click of her tongue. She glanced at her guards minutely, and then asked, "And…you are?"

"Oh! I apologize!" the boy exclaimed, looking sorry. "My name is Henry Brooks."

She had not heard of that name, but settled back to handle the situation anyway. "Any relation to Denny Brooks?" she asked in choppy English.

"He's my father," Henry told her, smiling. "I am sorry to barge in like this, but I thought the present circumstances in Russia detrimental enough to waylay formalities."

Listening intently to his words, Mina nervously picked up her drink and stared. "Would you like one?" she asked, motioning to the bottle.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, please," he said, watching her pour. He took the glass from her and drank it in one chug, licking his lips. "Russians and their Krupnikas." He grinned. "I like a stout drink."

She had to laugh. "You are good with your liquor, young Brooks. I will give you another." She poured, still chuckling.

"Thank you," he said politely. "I'm sorry about the destruction to Moscow. We hadn't anticipated they would attack so soon."

Mina started. "I won't blame you for another man's war," she responded, though her words were laced with skepticism.

"Yes, well…" the boy stalled, he and suddenly reached into his pocket. He took out a cigarette and asked, "Do you mind?"

She waved at him in acceptance and relief, bringing out one of her own. Brooks sat back and lit it, inhaling noiselessly. "You see, Miss Novikov," he began, but Mina had to cut him off.

"I'm not a miss. You can call me Mina," she bumbled, knowing she had made a grave error that would have had her father seething. The boy had desisted with the formalities, hadn't he? Mina shrugged it off.

"Then you'll have to call me Henry," he said, smiling at her. She wondered if the boy was as bad at diplomacy as she was, but appreciated the casual approach anyway. "Mina," he started again. "I'm here today not only because we have no people to spare, but because I would wish to talk to you personally, and not send others. This is a delicate situation, one that you have every reason to blame me for, and I would not have Russia in dire straits without the promise of help."

She frowned, looking at the boy before her critically; his comportment did not match his young face, and his words had subtly relayed an impossibility.

"You're not…" she cleared her throat. "You are _him_?"

"If you mean the one who started this war, then yes, I am him. If you mean the creator of the guns that will end this war, then yes, I am also him," Henry said, and then grinned. "If you mean any other impressive activities, then I'll gladly take the credit for those as well."

_This _was the leader of the New War? The revolution? Astounded by his character and impressed by his words, Mina could almost believe it. But he was _young_, and, in her experience, young things had very little to do with logical or cunning matters. Young people were decidedly _not_ what Henry Brooks was claiming to be.

"You don't believe me," Henry said, still smiling. "I don't blame you. It's understandable. In fact, I've had so many who've disregarded my age that your disbelief is refreshing."

Mina lifted an indecisive shoulder. "How old are you?" she asked.

Henry did not take offense, luckily. "Just turned seventeen," he told her.

"In body, perhaps," she grunted. "Forgive me, you must understand my position."

She had meant to say more than that, but she suddenly found herself mightily tongue-tied and unable to finish.

"I do," the lad plowed on. "This war is entirely too important to be in the hands of a young man, and you doubt your decisions because of it."

Normally, Mina would hate for anyone to dare explain how _she _felt or what _her_ opinion was on matters. She despised those who thought they could read her mind when all they had were assumptions to run on, acting as if they knew her better than she knew herself. And yet, Mina found herself grateful for his observation.

"Yes," she nodded. "That is correct."

"Truth is the best course of action, then," he decided, sliding forward in his seat. "What would you like to know?"

She was not used to this open policy in dealing with foreign relations, but she wouldn't give up the chance at controlling the conversation. Mina, of course, would not be able to tell if the boy was being entirely honest, but she knew there was no way around it. Her first question prompted a bit of a story from Henry, but, before he could continue, Mina was flying to her feet as her guards raised their guns.

"You're a _Wizard_?" she asked, slipping into Russian; then she spoke the words in English. The boy did not seem alarmed, though he did raise an eyebrow at the guards.

"I am," he said simply. "Perhaps you can understand _my_ position now."

"But _why_?" she near shouted. "Why try to destroy your own people? I cannot understand it! You ask me to trust you, but you are young and a Wizard and you've begun something that I'm beginning to think is a madman's bid for power. That is what I think this is!"

Infernally, Henry remained unruffled. In fact, he had the audacity to look impressed with Mina, as if she had passed some sort of test. That reaction threw her off, and she felt her body lowering into her seat, her gaze never leaving those intense, green eyes.

"I will answer truthfully," Henry murmured. "But I must ask that your men concede to a vow of silence about all that I have and will speak of here."

"They won't leave!" she snapped.

"I would not forfeit your comfort, Mina," he said gently. "Please, at least in this room, I promise no harm and no lies. Please trust me."

Mina could not deny his sincerity, for there was honest pleading in his eyes, and he was nervous, she could tell. Licking her suddenly chapped lips, she said, "Yes…yes. I will do this."

"Thank you," he spoke contritely.

She watched the proceedings of the vow, having only seen magic at work once, when a Wizard friend of her father's had come to court when Mina was but a small child. _This _magic, however, made Mina's hair stand on end, and the weight of it lingered in the room long after Henry was finished.

"Thank you," he said again, once he was done. He extended his appreciation to her guards as well. "You asked me why I would begin this war," he continued, turning back to her. "I told you I was a Wizard. Do you want to understand why I want to destroy my own kind?"

Nodding, she colored a bit when Henry gave her an approving smile. "I should start at the beginning, then," he said, and he launched into his tale.

His story was a long one, and Mina had poured more vodka and lit even more cigarettes throughout it. Her guards had twitched with discomfort through half of it until Mina allowed them to sit. She found herself breathless more than once, and she was quiet through the entire narrative, listening to his voice. Then the past met with the present, and there was silence in the room.

Mina cleared her throat, and stubbed out her smoke. "You strive for something very few have ever dreamed of. I am a woman of faith, and Russia is a country of faith, and your words are true to me only because no one would dare deceive our faith. You know this," she said her part.

"I wouldn't," he agreed, closing his eyes briefly. "I didn't accept it, Mina, for a very long time. Yet, here I am now, tired from the weight of it, and pained at what must be the price of unity."

"Men with duty," a guard spoke up, "are strangers to sleep."

Mina nodded in agreement with her guard. "Duty carries an impossible weight." She dropped her eyes for a moment. "Your tale must be true, for I do not know why so many would follow you otherwise."

Henry shook his head. "I have never told anyone of the events of that day."

She snorted. "Then why us? Why now?"

The boy raised his stare, and Mina was struck by how weary Henry seemed. How bright his eyes were. "Perhaps I am too tired to carry it anymore. Perhaps I see something in you that is very close to what I see in myself. You have your duty to your country, and you hold it above all else. Above any avarice." He stopped and frowned. "I don't want to talk about this to gain your trust. I suppose I don't care about it now."

He laughed suddenly. "I'm afraid you've become something of a friend without your consent," he said. "It must be the drink."

She simply had to grin. "More then?" she offered, and he took the refill gladly. "I am oddly…honored that you would tell me this."

Henry sipped his drink this time. "I would tell you that you shouldn't be, if I was going to lie, but you should be. My lover is not even privy to this information."

Mina grinned and winked. "A lover for the most powerful man in the world? Who would be worthy?"

"Ugh," Henry groaned. "I think the question is if _I _am worthy of him. But I won't go on about his loveliness."

"Difficult, is he?" she beamed.

She soon found herself laughing at Henry's trials with this "Draco" fellow, and far from being insulted, Henry was amused at the ridiculousness of it as well. The guards were given drinks in the middle of it all, and one entirely too out-spoken man said, "You could always take up with a Russian. We are not so complicated, like Englishmen."

The teasing tickled Henry completely, and Mina was thankful for it. The hours flew by so very fast she did not know how late it had become until Henry said, "Fuck, is it really nine _at_ _night_? Bollocks, I've got to go." His words came out disappointed.

They all rose when he did, and she clasped his arm more personally than she had hours before. To her surprise, Henry extended his good wishes to her guards as well, and then he left about as quickly as he came, and they all stood where they were for quite a few minutes.

"Do you think him genuine?" she asked her guards in Russian, conflicted.

The one that had propositioned Henry shrugged. "He has honesty about him."

"For all of his confidence in allowing me a choice, he has given me none at all," she said, more to herself than anyone. "Alstrat has already notified the UN of his decision, and there is no neutrality anymore. There is only one side for us. His side."

"He knows this," said the guard to her left, Ponzka, if she remembered his name right. "So what purpose did he have for telling us so much?"

The inimitable unbosoming was what confused Mina the most, and once the guards had retired, she sat back down and finished off the bottle they had put a considerable dent in. Her father's parlor loomed around her like a great beast, stymied in its timelessness and disconsolate, much like her present mood.

"Diplomacy, papa," she said to the empty room. "You taught me how to deceive, and how to see those who deceive. If you were here, I would ask your opinion."

She knocked back another shot.

"But you would say to me," Mina whispered, "'don't be a fool. That was duplicity through and through.'"

But she liked the boy. If only he hadn't made it so complicated. Now it was politics. Mina sighed heavily, stubbing out her last smoke. What would a Novikov do? What would her father have done? She asked the study, the place where her father's memory was so clear, but received no answer. Mina thought long and hard into the night, her father's spirit remaining with her, but somehow, still not there at all.

.o00o.

"You're quiet today," Harry said, his hands moving with a bit of absent-mindedness. Severus stood beside him, his eyes not on Harry's potion but on the bookcase in front of him. Pensive. Still. Not words he'd normally associate with the man. "Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?" Harry asked impatiently.

Snape tore his eyes away from the books, and Harry heard him sigh deeply. "Draco is working with Blaise," the man explained.

Confused as to why it would be a problem, Harry frowned and stopped his work. "Yes," he admitted, treading carefully. "He wanted to help, and he's more tolerant than he thinks. Distributing weapons to England seemed like a good choice for him." He stopped there and looked at his professor. "Was I wrong?"

"No," Snape told him bluntly. "You were not, but I suppose that I had not thought you would go through with it."

Harry put down his tools entirely and turned to face him. "You say this now? _After_ the attacks?" he quietly growled, exasperated with Severus.

"I know the world is at war," Snape said, brisk now but not cruel. "I am neither stupid nor blind. Perhaps, though, it has finally occurred to me that the last of my family is involved, and that you would not care to secure their safety."

_Draco is his godson_, Harry reminded himself. He turned off the burner, after swiftly adding the ponging gidgee leaves, and rubbed his eyes. _I'm forgetting things that are important.  
_

"I'm sorry, if that makes any difference," he said, trying not to sound as frustrated as he felt.

Snape scoffed, and his carriage remained stiff. "You don't understand, Potter," he said matter-of-factly, finally turning to _look _at Harry. His eyes were expressive for once, transmitting exactly how little he thought of the boy. "You have taken away the _choice_ to be involved. My knowing of your goals has made me an unwilling abettor. Not only that, but, with your actions, there is nothing anymore by way of liberty, and you planned it so. I don't think you understand at all."

Harry watched as the normally stoic, if not uncompromising, professor looked away from him and closed his eyes. He spoke, blind: "There are individuals, Potter, who make up the world. Not just to occupy space. In this war, you will destroy many of them."

"I wouldn't destroy Draco—" Harry started, but Snape interrupted with a sharp turn of his head. He was angry now.

"You have already taken him! The man he could have been by himself, given time, has been stolen by your actions. Not purposely, perhaps." Snape clenched his teeth and drew away from the work table. "But you have destroyed the person he could have been."

Harry lifted his chin. "And if he turns out better than what he could have been?" he snarled.

"You do not understand," Snape told him again, and Harry was getting very tired of it. "The path is gone, not by his choices, but by yours." He met Harry's gaze. "As you have done to everything and everyone. I am afraid of that power, and I am angry with it."

"What is this?" Harry snapped, losing his temper. "Are you _backing _out, Snape? At the start of it, you're running away? Right. I never took you for a _coward_—"

Snape took him by the collar and slammed him against the worktable. The potion rocked from side to side but didn't spill. Harry stared into those black eyes defiantly as Snape flushed with fury.

"I could kill you," Snape whispered wrathfully. "I could kill you and not regret it. Not once."

Harry glared. "Then fucking do it," he goaded. "Fucking do it and save Draco from me. Because that's what this is about. This is about Draco and me, not your hapless attempts at preserving humanity."

He threw Harry away from him. "Why couldn't you have just kept Draco out of it?" Snape asked, considerably calmer.

Harry brushed off his shirt. "You don't give him enough credit," he snapped back, scowling.

There was an unexpected laugh from Snape. "I give him plenty of it," Snape said scathingly. "If he turns into the man you want, Potter, then you must realize that he could be far more dangerous than you."

That comment made Harry blink, and Snape saw the motion and smirked. "You don't understand," he repeated, laughingly. "Your _lover_ may have been a scared little boy for you to prey upon at the beginning of this coupling, but he was born a Malfoy. He was raised a Malfoy. He plays the same games you do, and yet you don't think him an equal."

Harry seethed. "And how would you know how I treat him?" he retorted hotly.

Snape jeered. "You'll see it when it's entirely too late. You won't have him wrapped around your finger anymore, Potter, he'll have _you_."

They had said nothing to each other, and, yet, they had said everything. Harry was angrier than he had been in a long time, and, judging by Snape's smile, he was aware of it. "So why worry?" he asked, trying to be cool.

"Because he could have been _good_," Snape insisted. "Thankfully, I think you will be the only one to suffer for it, and I will _enjoy _seeing him collar you."

_As if_, Harry thought viciously. _As if I would let anyone control me in body, soul, and magic.  
_

The entire squabble between them was ridiculous anyway. Harry scoffed and turned away from the man, gathering his things. "Am I dismissed?" he questioned with an air of resignation. Snape would think he'd won this quarrel.

"By all means," the man snarked.

When the door to Snape's office closed with a snap, Harry stood for a long time with his hands braced on the wood of the table. His body was strained and whipcord tight, the muscles protesting the stress of the day and the lack of sleep at night. The difference in Draco was palpable, but he did not think it was as Snape said. He did not think Draco was coming out of his submissive passivity to take some sort of a stand. Yet, did Harry _treat_ Draco as an equal? Snape had insinuated that he did not. The doubt was there.

All the business about keeping Harry, as if he were the one who followed Draco, raised Harry's hackles. But, then, would it be so bad to be taken care of? Snape thought Draco would stake his claim in a hurtful way, perhaps, but Harry disagreed. What if Draco really did take control? Could he be a mainstay for Harry?

He shook the thought away. There would be no one to catch him if he fell, and that was that. There never had been, and this indemnity would not change.

.o00o.

He could afford it. Beside him, Rashidi grinned into the rising desert sun. The dunes ahead of them quivered with the morning wind, carving trenches and dusting the skies. The smell of blood was carried into the atmosphere, building and building until it flew on the gibs of the machine that was their army. Running and scrambling in the sand, the battle commenced in a sort of wild gharana, half-assed and full of fear. Bursts of ash descended to the ground, fizzling out like pinwheels. The Wizard infantry turned and ran up the hill, trying to escape the rampaging soldiers with the guns they could not defeat. The Disapparition ward weighed heavily on their flight, making them flail across the Sahara as they tried in vain to get away. The soldiers cheered and heckled the fleeing men. Henry smiled and looked at Rashidi.

He could afford it.

Though he wasn't partial to using weapons like the Katara Rashidi had brought out, he didn't mind raising his trusty Colt and aiming. Blood covered the sand, and they reached for the scared men and disposed of them. Henry's dagger cut through pulp and bone, and the bullet crushed the rest of it. The sounds of fighting grew fainter until there was nothing left of the battle but bodies and birdsong. It was morning.

.o00o.

"My fellow countrymen," the President, the Prime Minister, the King said. "We are in a state of war. The world has been overrun by numerous attacks in the last month, and we have abstained from announcing the situation publicly. We, the United Nations, only remained silent for the safety of the people. But, to comfort you in these harsh times and assure you that we are a united front against this threat, clarifications must be made.

"This threat is not new. It has existed for as long as man has breathed on earth. I speak of magic; more specifically, these _Wizards_ whose presence was meant to be secret and undetected. Hidden from us. However, in light of recent events – I speak of the violent attacks against those who do not wield the same power they do – I ask you, as your leader, to bear the destruction with faith and devotion in your country. This is bigger war than any of us have ever fought in the history of our world. I ask you to unite against this force that would terminate us completely.

"Their uncalled for and atrocious actions will have consequences. No longer will we live in fear of when they shall make their move. No longer are we the inferior beings beneath the soles of their feet. A New War, the Right War, has begun, and together we shall fight for the advancement of mankind. Though our victory, we will bring about a great time of peace and progression. War is not kind, and this war will be cruel. A man can be at his best or at his worst during war. I call upon you to be at your best and to stand against these _Wizards_ who wish our families, our friends, and our loved-ones harm. We are in a state of war. We must remain united, for if we do, we shall not fail."

And the world stopped.


	4. Chapter Three

A/n: Sorry about last week guys. I'm hoping _this_ chapter will make up for my absence. It seems I've got a medical issue that won't be going away for another couple of months, but I'll use the pain as an excuse to get out of everything but updating. Thanks for the reviews!

Oh, by the way, if I ever don't update one week, there's always a posted explanation on the bottom of my profile.

A Few Responses: Dean: Я хочу тебя так плохо.

Ana: I had no doubts that you would be here, in the sequel, with little old me. You're too awesome. And you know, I never would have told anyone that I was a detailed sort of person, but I suppose I can be. Not like Tolkien detailed (snooze fest!), but somewhat thorough. Unfortunately, I suck in RL. Damn. You're so right! Snape _is _Harry's conscience! At least, until Harry stops listening to him, lol! Supreme Dark Lady Moongoose: Wait, what? What stalkers? Pamphlets? There's pamphlets about stalkers? Like in RL, or like cyber-stalkers? Was it on 60 minutes? Holy shit. Anybody stalks you I'll take care of them, man! I'll cyber-beat them. Or, I'll get someone else to do it for me. Yeah. Now I'm all worried about stalkers. No stalking! Shit. Anyway, you know I love you too. You're just astoundingly brilliant. Stars upon thars. Aces!

Dedication: to the wonderful _Amazonia_ and her many talents. May Microsoft induct the pr0n edition.

Warnings for this chapter: death, destruction, short mention of rape, gore, violence, torture, graphic slash and a _really_ immoral Harry in this one. Uh, you might want to watch out for this chapter. It's a little disturbing. You've been warned.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Three

"We have it in our hands. I don't see why we _wouldn't _use it."

"We've discussed this ad nauseum, Frankie," he replied through clenched teeth, barely containing the fury that threatened to leak out of him in a cacophonous seethe. "We'll lose this if we act too fast. Too rashly."

"They're going after us like they can push us back into place. Like this can all be fixed and forgotten."

Henry breathed in deeply. "They're going after us so that we _will_ act. So that we will use all of our men, all of our resources, and do it entirely too soon."

He closed his eyes because they desperately wanted to close, but he only allowed himself to do so for a moment…just a moment. He opened them.

"If we don't _think_ about this, we're going to fucking lose. I understand Rashidi's and Rahul's problems." Henry paused and held up a hand before Frank could interrupt. "Their countries are tearing apart from the inside out. But we expected this. They were fucking _warned_."

Frank was stubborn. _"You _expected this," he said casually, a lot less heatedly than before. He changed the subject deftly, unwilling to have the squabble escalate. "The Indian Prime Minister has declared war on us. On _us_. He's promised protection to the neutrals, and, because of the death toll already, many people are wondering if he doesn't have the right of it. Wondering if this isn't just a war with underhanded intent. There's dissension, even among our men."

Rubbing his brow, because his eyes stung and his head _hurt_, Henry looked away from Frank and lit a smoke, which only made the various discomforts worse. "It doesn't surprise me," he exhaled noisily. "It's the religious bit in them that doubt. Any human would—"

"Fuck that," Frank suddenly snapped. "Everyone's running around like headless chickens, Henry. Peaceable politicians want a goddamn treaty, like Wizards are some oppressed minority that we've shat upon. The UN is wavering between passivism and aggression. The Wizards are still fucking confused, and we're sitting here watching it happen without a plan."

"You are so bloody annoying!" Henry snarled at him. "What's France up to?"

Frank sputtered. "Who the hell—"

"I care. France?"

Raising his hands in surrender, Frank said, in a rather devil-may-care way, "Undecided. Undeclared. Useless. Intel says refugees are going there."

"Then that's where we'll attack next."

Alarmed, Frank sat forward in his seat, but he remained silent. His expression likely portrayed just how disturbed he was because Henry lifted a shoulder and met his gaze. There was cruelty in those green eyes, and Frank, despite his experience with Henry, suddenly didn't know how to handle it.

"If we leave France as an out," Henry explained, slowly and perspicaciously, "they'll settle and grow as a well-known expatriate sanctuary, which could, and very likely will, cause a revolt en bloc that neither side will be able to control."

Frank licked his bottom lip. "There are non-magical people there as well. Women and children from our world. Many from Italy and India. Brits too. Lots of them," he whispered.

"They may think they're neutral now, Frankie, that they're just sufferers in this and are only leaving to escape the fighting, but victims can become the victimizers with the right amount of misery. Picture millions of them with a reason to fight. We can't risk it."

He sat back and stared blankly at the ceiling, wondering if he could say what he wanted to say. Frank went for it. "That's cold-blooded, even for me." His head flew up to catch Henry's reaction. The boy flinched.

Frank was angry. "What's the _matter with you_?" he nearly yelled, watching as the hard, merciless glint reappeared in Henry's stare. He refused to be intimidated; he'd had enough.

For the past week, Henry hadn't been his usual self at all. Frank never would have thought the boy could fall apart from stress (or whatever it was that was ailing him), but it looked as though he _was_ falling apart. Henry had dark rings around his owlish eyes, and his face was hard with the loss of weight and pale with weariness. If he didn't know any better, Frank might have thought Henry was ill. But, then, wouldn't the boy _say_ something if he were?

Abruptly, he was rather glad Rashidi and Rahul weren't here, because they would have noticed Henry's flagging health not with concern, but with anticipation. Power, after all, had no other burden but power. Perhaps Henry knew their games well, considering his avoidance of the two. Frank reminded himself exactly who Henry was in character, and didn't doubt it.

"Just…" the lad finally spoke, but hesitantly. "Memories. Dreams that follow me into the real world. Guilt."

"Guilt?" Frank repeated, slightly shocked. "I didn't mean for you to feel guilty, Hen. If you think attacking the camp is imperative—"

"No," Henry cut him off, lighting a smoke and looking away from him. "I thought I would be okay. Necessary evils, remember?" He grinned wryly. "But do you wonder if… Do you wonder if I've let myself become too cold to it? That I've forgotten about the individual and that this war is only about power, about forcing a change that could have been brought about with time and patience?"

"What are you saying?" Frank gaped, frozen in his seat. "I don't understand, Hen; you'll have to explain. What about _individuals_?"

Henry rose from his chair, looking as if he wanted to pace, but he stood staring at Frank, instead – rather unnervingly so. "Choices. Individuals. The world is made up of them, not just citizens and soldiers. I've lost sight of that; I've taken away the choice to _be_ an individual in this war."

"I thought it was for the betterment of the world, or some other fucking shit," Frank pointed quietly, askance at the turn in conversation. "You told me about an assimilated world, about advancements, about finding answers, for fuck's sake. That was your dream—"

"It was someone else's dream!" Henry shouted, his voice cracking. Frank didn't move. "I was given this task. I didn't have a choice in it, and I _hated_ it, Frankie. For so long, I _hated _it. But I've done to the world what they did to me. I've become something even I don't understand anymore."

Frank didn't think Henry was crazy. He had never thought that about the boy, at least. Ambitious, charming, and powerful, perhaps. More than capable, surely. But the boy in front of him was none of those impressive things, and, if Frank was less loyal, less empathetic and knowing of Henry, he might think he was insane. Talking about some sort of 'task' was frightening enough, but that was mostly because he would be scared of any deity who might choose Henry to do their bidding.

Joking aside, he wasn't quite sure what to believe. Before he'd met the boy, he'd probably have shot a man for even suggesting that unicorns existed, but now it was a rather common fact. The magic that had come with Henry might ensure Frank's belief, but messages from metaphysical divinities? That was pushing it. He didn't even believe in God, much less a messiah or a prophesized apocalypse. But did Henry?

He looked at the boy.

"You must think I'm crazy," Henry said, on the same, sordid page. "But I'm not, Frankie; I'm really not." He sat down heavily, and there was a long silence where neither of them were sure of what to say. Henry twiddled a cigarette in his hands and sullenly brought it to his mouth to light. His hands were shaking. "Just forget I said anything," he whispered, so quiet that Frank barely caught it.

No, there was more going on than a message from God. Henry could never be so simple.

"How many men do we have left in Rahul's territory?"

Frank cracked his neck, twining his hands together with a small smile. "Four to five thousand. We lost a few hundred in the last month or so," he explained.

Henry blew out a black cloud of smoke. "Good. Have Rashidi combine his armories with Rahul's, and…" He stopped and scratched the back of his head. "Do we have maps of the refugee camps?"

Nodding, Frank poured another drink. "Rahul had a man infiltrate the camps. He came back with a layout. I think Rahul anticipated your move because I only got the paperwork yesterday," Frank cleared his throat and waited for Henry to say something.

"Obviously, I'm not the only one who thinks this is a good maneuver," Henry said sarcastically.

Frank wanted to punch that look off his face. "We'd be better off attacking from the south, but they'll expect us there. The English Channel's a no-go because the camps are just outside of Paris. Guillermo might agree to an invasion through Spain, which would be less ground to cover, and no water."

Henry dipped his head slowly. "I don't want to bribe Guillermo any more than I have to. You leave getting there to Rahul; I'll contact him," he said, but, before he could continue, his phone started to ring rather loudly. Appearing terribly put-upon, Henry answered quickly, "What is it, McKay?"

"You told me to put men on Lukasz, Henry," McKay reminded him, sounding about as pissed off as Henry did. He was panting though, and Henry wondered briefly if the man was in distress. "They know where your relations are," he said simply.

He blinked. "What? _How_? Never mind. When are they going to start?"

"Within the week, is what Lukasz said," he panted. "Do you need us?" _Us_ meaning the small army now stationed at the Manor. Henry swallowed and coughed a little.

"No, I can handle Lukasz." Henry waved a hand. "Does anyone know _who_ they are, exactly?"

John sniffed. "That the targets are Harry Potter's relatives and not Henry Brooks'? No. Lukasz isn't that clever. But he _will_ know if you don't head him off. And get rid of anyone else he brings with him," he answered logically.

"Alright," Henry said. "Thanks, McKay."

"Be careful. He's taking at least twenty goons with him, or so our scout estimates."

"I'll be kind. See you." Henry hung up before John could suggest more manpower. Frank waited patiently for Henry to explain, and, when he did, Frank, oddly enough, seemed to sink into his chair with abject relief.

"Oh," he said in response. "Alright then. You'll be going, I suppose?"

Henry frowned at his reaction but said, "You can handle the refugee camp. I know you can. If I'm not too busy, I may drop in. You never know."

"I've got it handled, kid," Frank told him, not really appreciating the attitude. "Go save people who don't deserve it."

So _that _was what the relief was about, Henry thought, and hesitated for a moment before allowing Frank his assumptions and thanking him perfunctorily. If Frank wanted to think Henry was simply distraught over the past come knocking, Henry didn't care. Better that then Frank think he was going mad, for Henry wasn't entirely sure that wasn't the case anyway. He only wished the dreams would stop.

**.o00o.**

Sucking Draco off was never a chore. Harry found his taste to be satisfying in a way that had nothing to do with flavor and everything to do with his astonishing reaction to fellatio. Most of the men Harry had gone down on were old enough to not expect or feel anything new in the act.

Francis had been a teacher, Dex a forceful and frequently unsatisfied receiver (giving was a ludicrous request), and Frank took to oral sex like he did to a bottle of Jack Daniels – a good experience every time, but seldom shocking.

Draco wasn't very familiar with sex. Fortunately, his forays into the beds of Hogwarts' girls had given him a measure of self-control and confidence, so Harry didn't find himself impatiently navigating Draco about in bed. He supposed he had Draco's dorm mates to thank for that. Accordingly, sex talk was rarely narrowed down to girl parts and dos-and-don'ts. By the time Harry had gotten to Draco, he was well aware of where to put his cock, be it a boy or a girl. The fundamentals down, all they had to do was begin.

And the beginning had been more than satisfactory for them both.

He gripped the base of Draco's weeping erection and pumped slowly and methodically, caressing the tip in a manner that suggested something entirely different from fellatio. Draco arched underneath him, his thighs quivering spastically, his hand flying towards Harry's head only to hesitate there, as if afraid to push. These moments of shilly-shallying never lasted, and, with one strong shove, the tip of his cock hit the back of Harry's throat. He mumbled in approval.

Unlike the others, Draco's orgasm was memorable. Frank had the tendency to abruptly shoot and then completely collapse at the end of it. Francis' cool acceptance of his climax, as if he'd simply had a pleasant burst of contentment, used to frustrate Harry something awful. Dex had come with lots of noise that had always made Harry's ears hurt and his patience run out. But Draco let it last, and Harry made it last longer.

Suddenly, the legs around him tensed, and a gush of liquid burst into his mouth, astringent and thick. Harry continued stroking, moving him through the feeling slowly, deeply, until the shaking stopped and the sound of panting became too loud. He let the organ fall from his mouth, careful not to touch it again until the sensitive skin stopped tingling. Draco exhaled a burst of air and looked down at him.

Harry licked his lip, biting it briefly, and smiled when Draco's cock twitched.

There was another advantage to having this boy as a lover. It had everything to do with Draco still being a _boy_; well, more of a young man, lately, and able to do things twice or even thrice before his cock was too raw to piss. A few minutes of gathering himself was usually followed by another round, and, in the meantime, Harry would prepare. Draco was no slacker at stretching him nicely, but Harry found that he preferred to tease him this way. Those grey eyes never left his fingers, his entrance, until the sight became entirely too much, and they were finally fucking.

Draco watched him now, intensely, as if looking away would make it stop. Harry ran a finger over the rippling edges of his hole, his hands slick with lube, and quietly shoved one inside. His hole trembled as if, like a fussy sort of butterfly, it wanted to get rid of the foreign object, but Harry forced its accommodations until it caught. Unable to remain stoic despite his will to tease Draco mercilessly, he threw his head back and widened his legs. The initial discomfort of having something up there receded when he touched his prostate with a tiny itch of a fingernail. His toes curled sweetly. Harry spent time barely stroking that spot, the shots of electricity moving through his balls and the base of his cock. He made a noise that could've been a moan, could've been a whimper.

Another finger joined the first, and the stretch disconcerted his body briefly before his assault on his prostate continued. The gland seemed to widen, growing bigger and more sensitive, and he jutted his two digits inside quickly.

The third finger caused barely a twitch of discomfort, and he sighed against the intrusion. Sweat cooled on his naked body, and he shivered. The fourth finger made Draco sing with him, then their bodies slid together, and his legs were raised and draped over Draco's shoulders.

Draco slid into him, and suddenly there was security. Power. The ability to take and not give, the selfish feeling of someone _needing_ and wanting to be inside of him. The emotive thought of _I have you now. _Eyes on Draco, he gloried in the bursting, fatty sensation of a cock deep in his body. _Mine_, his sex cried, and it was true. Draco was never more owned than in _that_ single moment.

To prove it, Draco was softly moaning before he let out a loud guttural cry. Harry tightened around Draco viciously, laughing when he received a terrible glare in response. Harry always counted on the predictable retaliation, and he wasn't wrong now. Draco pounded into him without reserve, going so far as to spout a slew of derogatory things to the boy beneath him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Draco was saying, his hips driving forward with a strength Harry had to smile at. "Fucking hot, bloody—ouch!" he cried, and the thrusting suddenly stopped.  
He drew out of the not-entirely-pleased Harry. "What the hell?" he asked, watching Draco hold a hand to his hip.

"Fucking hurts," Draco told him, wincing.

Harry raised himself up on his elbows. "What hurts?" he said with more concern this time.

"My hips, you thickheaded tosser."

Not at all sure how to alleviate Draco of this problem, Harry mumbled, "Why?" a bit crossly.

"Why? _Why_? I'm fucking tired," Draco snapped, sitting back on his heels. "Why don't you ride me?" he suggested.

It was an interesting request. Harry was prone to that position only during certain moods. When he was feeling particularly charitable, for instance, he was willing to expend the effort of doing most of the work. But those times were few and far between, and no one had ever requested it. At least it hadn't been a demand, like Dex would have done (or, rather, he would have simply jostled Harry into whatever position he cared for), but, despite the choice given, Harry was still peeved. No one requested anything during sex with him. It was either Harry's call or no one else's at all.

Draco was giving him a choice.

How silly was it that it had to do with sitting on his cock? Harry abruptly laughed. As he did with everything, he had always taken sex seriously. The newness of the request threw him off, but he was still hard and so was Draco. With an internal shrug, he moved towards Draco and climbed into his lap. Draco laid back and stared at him.

Guiding the wet erection to his hole, Harry had a minor misstep before it slid in rather easily. He bounced, watching Draco's long neck curve and shine with sweat, like silk. Harry reached forward and ran a hand along his visible trachea, feeling the skin rise in its wake. Draco grabbed his wrist, and Harry stopped bouncing.

"_Enjoy_ yourself," Draco demanded, his eyes bright and angry.

Harry tore his wrist away. He placed his hands on Draco's thighs and rolled, listening for the breathy moans that usually meant his climax was looming. Instead, Draco seemed to have gotten pissed about something. He glared at Harry fiercely before shoving a finger into his entrance alongside the bulky, enclosed cock. Harry screamed.

"_Ah_! What are you—_hnng_! Oh, Fu—"

Draco shoved his finger in deeper, adding another until Harry was rising and falling with abandon. The perfect sensation, the coupled one of Draco's phallus stuck against his prostate as the digits wiggled against his skin, was something Harry wasn't sure he'd ever felt before. He moved back and forth, crushing Draco's reach and soaking in the stimulation.

For the first time since that day in the Room of Requirement, Harry came before Draco.  
And when Draco threw him from his lap and ate him out, he remembered that there was passion in them. When had he forgotten?

_I'm forgetting things that are important_, he thought, and came again.

Harry pushed forward, reciprocating, and, at the end of it, there was a smile on Draco's face that Harry had never seen before. A smile that made him nervous.

.o00o.

He arrived just after the tenth hour, morning time. The forest was just as picturesque as legend heralded, and the cold, crisp air of the early day bit at his nose and his fingers. Henry withdrew his wand, the wand he barely used, though it was far from useless. This wand was a pair, a companion to the Invisibility Cloak in his back pocket. He hadn't meant to bring the wand along because they were mostly inefficient to him, and the cloak felt foreign – strange, rather than valuable. But these artifacts had called to him, for no reason he could properly discern, and he'd given in.

In his hand, the Elder Wand felt as if it were a part of him, as any other limb would. His magic didn't feel trapped with the use of it, though a certain amount of control was inevitably established in order to use the wood and core to its fullest. Henry wouldn't admit that he quite liked this fortuitous acquisition, possibly more than the ever faithful pistol in his coat. The legend of the Hallows only made him wary, however, and so he chose not to interact with the two he had more than what was necessary. In his hand, nevertheless, the fabled wand felt at home and comfortable.

Henry struck out with it, and the army appeared before him.

Rahul's Wizards had done well on the enchantments meant to keep the men hidden, but not astoundingly well. He moved towards the camp, the long black coat the cold had insisted on was skittering against the back of his knees. A warm, lightly furred hood covered his forehead and ears. He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and inhaled, smoke and frost hitting his lungs unpleasantly. Through the fabric of his mittens, the long burning paper felt heavy, his fingers numb. He exhaled, his eyes on the mingling army, and puffed out a cloud into the cool air.

Feet taking him forward, Rahul's men watched him pass through the camp with keen eyes. Some blatantly leered, but others (who likely sensed his unfriendly demeanor) shied away rather quickly. Henry marveled at how easy it was to find the leaders of this little army, for they were all dressed rather nicely and conversing around an oblong table at the very center of the makeshift base.

Frank was talking to Rahul heatedly, and, beside him, the dark, handsome figure of Rashidi smirked in an amused manner as they quarreled. A few other important men lingered around them, people Henry didn't recognize and so shrugged off. He came up and stubbed out his cigarette.

"Hey!" Frank greeted him gruffly, cutting off Rahul's next words, which sounded a bit lax in civility. "You made it," he pointed out.

"I made it," Henry repeated, looking at Rahul. "What's happening, then?"

Rashidi grinned at him and placed a map onto the table, holding it down with his dagger. "Glad to have our general, Brooks," Rashidi teased before pointing to the map. "We're having a difference of opinion, here."

Frank crossed his arms and glared. "A _moral_ dispute," he corrected.

Having no intention of mediating their problem until he knew exactly what was going on, Henry raised a hand and shook his head. "Facts would be nice," he said unkindly. "I quite like facts."

The map was the center of attention once more. Rashidi gestured to it and said, "The refugee camp is twenty square miles, at least. Most of the tents are set up in a meadow about half that size. Around the perimeter are wards, which, according to Rahul's wizards, will be easy to tear down."

Henry's eyes were on the top of the large paper. "Forest of Fontainebleau, how apt," he murmured. "What else?"

"We argued for a while about what side to go in. The eastern border of the wards leads to a road and the edge of the Loing, every other side is just trees and rocks and shit," Frank explained.

He frowned. "Why are the wards not charted?"

"My Wizards are doing that now," Rahul answered, looking sheepish. He had a right to, certainly, because Henry knew they'd been arguing most of the morning and not preparing.

Huffing, he got out his wand and placed it on the table. With a casual turn of his finger, it began to spin widdershins, faster and faster until it was merely a blur. While the wand worked, the topography on the map changed, marking the edges of the region with bright red marks. Henry waited until the wand halted, one last string-like line falling into place.

"Just as I thought," he said slowly. "The French are nothing if not precise."

"Why would they box themselves in?" Rahul demanded to know, gazing at the map with disgust. The perfect rectangle of wards around the forest was indeed disturbing. "They made it too easy for us!"

"_Maybe_," Frank interjected, his face red, "they assumed decent people wouldn't attack a camp full of women and children."

Rashidi nodded, and placed a hand on Frank's shoulder in a parody of companionship. "They took safety measures that suggest they wouldn't expect an attack, Rahul. McAllister is right," he said.

Henry sighed. "Mixer," he accused Rashidi, who smiled. "What's the problem now, Frankie?"

Frank leaned towards him, his gaze bright with anger. "I'll tell you what my problem is. There are close to ten thousand people in that camp, Henry, and only two thousand are able to fight. We have four thousand men. You do the math!"

"We aren't outnumbered!" one of Rahul's advisors spoke up. "We have the guns!"

"That's not what I mean, you ignorant infidel!"

Raised voices cut through their group as the man attempted to strangle Frank, who grimaced and nudged Rahul, who started yelling various curses at him in Arabic. Rashidi began to laugh as the two quarreled, but Henry really couldn't find anything funny about the situation.

And this was where a wand fell short of a gun.

The shot rang out into the sky, and Frank tore himself away from Rahul, staring at Henry uncertainly. Grudgingly, the group stood down as Henry placed the still smoking gun on the table, directly on the eastern border of the wards.

"I trust you're both done," he said smoothly, and Frank flinched. "Your _moral_ dispute is irrelevant. Unarmed, innocent, or young, I really don't give a fuck. This is _war_, and if you have trouble understanding acts of war, you can _fuck off_. I don't have time for this."

When no one spoke, or left, Henry nodded casually. "I'm going to shift the north-east wards," he continued, pointing Rashidi's dagger to the map, "the south-east wards, and eastern ward. Turning the magic against them won't be hard, but _I_ will do it, Rahul," he said before Rahul could object. "Your Wizards are good, but not that good."

He burned a black line around the border with his finger. "The blockage will start here. We'll come in from the north, north-west, west, south-west and south sides. Are these numbers correct?" he asked, gesturing to the sums of manpower.

"They're correct," Rashidi told him, looking interested.

"On the south side I want a thousand men, the west two thousand, the north can do with eight hundred, and everyone else has the corner trenches, especially the heavily wooded areas before the north-west entrance."

"The fronts are on the west," Rahul nodded quickly, before yelling to a man not far from them. He set off howling orders at the army, who perked up now that there was something happening.

Henry turned away from his retreating back. "Rashidi, what are the counts in the armories? I believe I told you to combine them," he questioned without looking up from the map.

"Four guns to each man. Twenty-six modified M2 Heavy Machine Guns. Fifty of those blasting M32's you sent over last week."

"The Grenade Launchers are working well for them?"

"They clear miles off of the field, if that's what you meant to ask."

Henry lit a cigarette and sighed. "Rahul's men are partial to swords, I take it," he observed, glancing at Frank, who was pouting.

"They're all trained in combat. Rahul allows the Calvary their steel. They do damage," Rashidi explained, admiration clear in his eyes.

"Fine then," he said, standing up straight. "Just make sure they don't delay things. I like guns because they're quick."

He set off to trick the wards, but Frank followed him and grabbed his arm. Henry had expected him to, so he merely tore the hand away and motioned for the man to come along. They disappeared into the forest in silence.

"It really is beautiful here," Henry mentioned placidly as they walked.

"Nine thousand nine hundred, Hen," Frank responded. "Women, children, handicapped. Almost ten thousand people."

"The camp is nearly the size of Manhattan. Half will escape."

"Most came out of Russia, or Scotland, where the attacks last week in Aberdeen forced them to run. Some _walked_ here, lost legs, some are just children who've starved to get here."

Henry stopped at the edge of the eastern wards. "They won't have to suffer anymore, then," he said.

"_Fuck you_, Henry!" Frank shouted. "This is _wrong!_ It isn't even war. This is a massacre. A senseless rampage. The men are animals. I never thought—"

"Frankie," Henry snapped at him. "Stop."

"You were just talking about _individuals_. Babbling on about some _fucking_ compassion! Now you don't care. You've never fucking cared."

He turned to the irate man, placed his hands on his shoulders, and leaned in to plant a lingering kiss on the side of his mouth. It silenced him, at least. "I know," Henry whispered to him, his breath visible in the air. "But it has to be done."

"Are you just _angry_ at everyone?" Frank whispered back, hurting.

Henry huffed against his cheek. "It has to be done," he repeated before reaching in his coat for a simple, gold watch. He put it in Frank's hand. "You don't have to be here," he said.  
Frank remained silent.

The cold sunk into his bones. "Go home, Frankie," Henry told him. Frank looked up at the canopy of trees above them before staring back at him with a pained, resigned look. Without a word, he activated the Portkey and left.

Henry watched the now-vacant space for a moment, his chest aching, before he turned back to the wards. The magic twined around him, heady in the chill day, and the Elder Wand heeded his will. The eastern border tightened, clamp-like and dooming, and he turned to send the message. They were ready.

The wards dropped.

.o00o.

Being here would not help him. There were wise words about digging up the past, words spoken by those without one, telling him to confront the events that made him who he was. Harry wasn't so idealistic, and he did not think coming back to this place would suddenly change his outlook, or give him peace. He didn't think memories could lose their strength with a small amount of acceptance, or even forgiveness.

Being here would not help him, he knew, even though he wished it would, because the moment he stepped up to the door of number four, Privet Drive, he was a boy again.

He was the Harry before life.

There was a vulnerability about him that he hated, one that only reared its ugly head when he was near the Dursleys. For the first time in many long years, he felt his temper sinking into himself and his body seeking to be invisible. As if nothing had changed, and he was about as low as he had been as a child. Surprised by his lack of fury at just _being_ there, of all places, he found that his anticipation for the coming events was partial excitement and a bit of sadness. Resentment, that he was afraid, and sadness because he had grown up here. He had been here until they had tired of him.

But that was so long ago.

The bell sounded the same. The half-knock that followed, so that they would _hear_ him, sounded as if time had not passed. He was seven again; yet, he wasn't. He was older, better, stronger, now more than ever before. It was odd to be in two bodies at once, but the lack of anger made him softer, and he leaned against the porch with a sigh.

The door opened, and he froze at the abrupt appearance of a pudgy boy, his blond hair flat on his sweaty face, his beady eyes looking at him without any knowledge of who Harry was.

"Yeah, what'd you want?"

This _was_ Dudley, a much older Dudley, and someone Harry hadn't thought about in years. "Are—" he paused and cleared his throat. "Are your parents home?"

"Yeah," Dudley grunted, gazing at him suspiciously. "Who should I say is asking?"

Harry fidgeted. "There's no need to be cagey, Dud," he admonished.

"Who is it, Dudders?" And Harry knew that voice, and he felt his chest jolt in divided nervousness and antipathy.

"If it's a solicitor, we don't want anything, and he's a thickhead for asking in the first place!" Vernon yelled from inside. He knew that voice too. It hadn't changed.

"I'm not a solicitor, please," Harry said slowly, calmly. "Can I come in and explain?"

Dudley narrowed his eyes. "How'd you know my name?"

Impatient to be inside, to get this _over _with, Harry made a gesture that obviously requested better accommodations than the stoop. "Well. We're family, you see," he explained rather simply, without emotion.

"Family?" Dudley repeated, but he moved back enough so that Harry could edge inside. "You don't _look_ like family."

_Of course I don't, you ham, _Harry thought, cruel despite himself. _I'm found wanting about three hundred pounds in your regard_.

"No, I don't suppose so," Harry conceded, just as another voice called, "Who is it, Dud? Bloody—" and then a walrus-like man was in the hall, his ugly glare fixed on Harry with a little less derision than when Harry was seven. He did not know him either, and Harry was suddenly assaulted by his long lost anger. Vernon Dursley should know him. "Who's this then?" the man asked rudely, pointing at him.

Before Harry could say something rather malicious, Petunia Dursley was there, and _she _knew him.

"YOU!" she screamed, and looked at Dudley quickly as if he were in very great danger. "How dare you come here!"

"Pet? Pet?" Vernon said somewhat hysterically. He cast Harry a terrible glare. "Who is it, Pet? Shall I call the police?"

Harry closed the open front door with a snap, honestly angry now, and put up both of his hands as if to surrender. "I need to talk to you, Aunt Petunia. It shouldn't take much of your time, perhaps a half an hour, and then I'll be gone. You'll never see me again."

He could help but smile. "You have my word," he promised.

"YOU!" Vernon shouted, his face gone rapidly red. "OUT! GET OUT!"

Harry had quite forgotten just how infuriating his relatives could be. He held up one hand and gave Vernon a firm glare so that the man couldn't help but sputter and fall silent in its wake. There now, silence.

"A half an hour," he repeated quietly, stonily, "is all I ask."

Petunia, who had more logic in her simple mind than both of the male Dursleys put together, seemed to give in, if only because she was wary of Wizards. Harry watched her anxious motions as she swallowed and turned to her son. "Dudders, go up to your room," she said.

"But, Mum!"

"Pet—"

"Now," she snapped, and it was surely an unusual happening, because Dudley got a wide-eyed look about him and immediately scampered away. "Come in the parlor," Petunia motioned to him, reluctant to be polite at all.

It looked the same. The same terrible cleanliness and decor that said no one of great character lived there, that those who did were _infernally_ normal and dull. The parlor Harry had cleaned every day until they had left him on the streets. He felt the memories come unbidden, but he managed, with some struggle, to bury them. He sat hesitantly on the floral sofa, across from Vernon and Petunia, who were huddled on the couch as if it would hide them.

"Why are you here? Why are you back?" her tone told him everything: that she was frightened he would remain there, perhaps intent on vengeance by magical means. She was worried for her pig of a son, who was eavesdropping at the kitchen door, and worried for her husband, who was now puce in color. He sighed.

While they hadn't changed, he had grown to be something ambivalent in principles, entirely different than the little boy they'd not loved. Not once. He hadn't expected them to be happy to see him, or even somewhat pleased he hadn't died on his own, but the fear – the absolute repulsion – shocked him.

It shouldn't. Not anymore.

Harry found that he hurt, and, though the hurt was small, it was still there. He was an adult now, an accomplished young man. He wasn't the boy again. Never again. Straightening his back and promising himself a cigarette when this sordid _reunion _was over, he asked, calmly, "Do you remember that day?"

_I know you remember that day.  
_

How could they not?

He had finished cleaning, so there was no reason for Vernon to yell at him. In his mind, his seven-year-old mind, he knew that his Uncle didn't need a motive to scream at him and refuse him dinner. Harry wouldn't have minded a box about the ears – rather that than no food – because he was _hungry_. Harry's stomach was cramping with need already. Just as he feared, Uncle grabbed him rather painfully, and, with one last, hapless glance at the Shepherd's Pie they were eating, he was thrown into the darkness of his cupboard.

His hands were raw from the chemicals he had used most of the day, dry and burning, but he reached out to the walls of his cupboard anyway. Usually, tracing over the patterns on the walls lulled him to sleep, no matter his empty stomach. That night, it was different, it felt different.

The air was heavy with static, and his hair stood on end. The expectancy of something about to happen, with or without consent, made him anxious.

The hardship of the day caught up with him. He recalled the hope for food if he finished his chores, the disappointment when it was withheld. It ached terribly, and Harry could not help but cry. He sobbed into the threadbare blanket on his cot, his throat sore with heavy hiccups as he ran his hands down the wall. It would _never_ end, _never_. He would remain with people who hated him until they forgot he was there, forgot to feed him, and let him die. Until he rotted in that dark cupboard, locked in forever where not even ghosts could escape. Trapped.

Harry felt the breeze run through his hair, chilled but comfortable, and, for a moment, he reveled in it, but then he realized it couldn't be there in his cupboard. It was _impossible_.

The magic moved, raging out of him, and the storm crested and tore everything apart.

_I know you remember that day.  
_

"You damn near blew the house up!" Vernon shouted, and Harry opened his eyes, though he hadn't realized they'd closed. "With that _freak _magic of yours! Burned the entire place down! We had to rebuild all of it! Then you run off and fall, and we're asked stupid questions about your injuries! We had a right to leave you!"

Vernon's face got even redder than what was feasible. "How do you like it now then, boy? We're at _war_ with your lot, and we're _winning_!" he gloated merrily.

"I know about the war, Uncle Vernon," Harry told him patiently, wondering for a brief moment, if he was amused or not. "It's why I'm here."

"We won't take you in," Petunia objected angrily. "If you're looking to _hide_ here, we won't do it!"

Harry frowned. "I wouldn't ask you to do that. I'd suggest some caution, though; you may be in danger," he said rather politely.

"May be? _May be_?" Vernon parroted. "The moment you came to us we were worse off! We had a right to put you out on your ear. Should have drowned you!"

"Vernon," Petunia said fearfully, as if Harry had a short temper. But, instead of blowing up, as Petunia seemed sure he would, he only sighed.

"Which brings me to my next question," he began. "Be honest now: Do you feel any remorse whatsoever for abandoning me?" he asked clinically.

"And why should _we_ feel guilty?" Petunia shot back, quite angry.

Harry stared at them. "For leaving a seven-year-old on the streets, I would think there would be some culpability on your shoulders," he intoned.

"But you were never _normal_, were you?" Vernon put in, looking as if he thought their being guilty were some sort of joke. "Not a regular boy. A freak is what you were, and look here, you survived." He jutted a beefy hand at Harry, assured that there was nothing for Harry to complain about. He'd _survived._

"Yes," he admitted casually. "I did."

He would get nowhere with these people. He knew very suddenly and without despondency that Vernon and Petunia Dursley were unchangeable. Harry nodded to them, just a tiny incline of the head, and rose from his seat. "I would warn you to leave, but I've no doubt you'll stay."

"Too right we won't be leaving! Suppose you'd like that!" Vernon bellowed at him, having had more than enough of Harry's company. "You can see yourself out, boy!"

He labored off to the kitchen, and Petunia lingered for a moment. "You won't come back?" she asked, unashamedly hopeful. "You won't come back here, _you promised_."

Harry watched her carefully. "No, Aunt," he said, though she was never anything like an Aunt to him. Never anything to him at all. "I don't want anything else from you."

Making for the door, he saw Dudley outside of the parlor taking up most of the hall. Feeling as though there was nothing left to be said, he did not say anything to his cousin before making his way out of the house. The front door shut behind him, and Harry took a moment to wonder at the small itch of the wards, the blood wards, that still remained on the house. They weren't strong, because Harry hadn't _ever_ felt as though this place was home, but its minor protections still existed. Like the ashes left after a body. He smiled as he cut into the wards with his magic. There was no need for them now.

He milled about Privet Drive, smoke curling around his face and obscuring it, until the sound of the new wards went off. He'd only needed a minute or so to set the spells, and a minute more to activate everything. Harry smiled as the tell-tale echo of gunfire spilled into the night – Lukasz and his men making short work of the Dursleys.

"For old time's sake, Uncle," Harry whispered and let go of the trigger.

Number four, Privet Drive splintered, cracked, and imploded. Ablaze, bits of wood and plaster rained down from the sky as the explosion rocketed through the street. The wards, ever efficient, notified him of the deaths in the house. He fancied he could hear Lukasz's surprised yell before he was consumed by the inferno. Harry hoped he'd realized there was bomb underneath that lovely floral couch before the blast had done away with thought. He fancied he could see the fear on his relatives' faces before they were lost to fire and flame.

Harry smiled and threw his cigarette into the wreckage. _A promise is a promise_, he whispered.

.o00o.

She was screaming. It seemed as though, in his mind, she would never stop screaming. Eternally, the echo of her pain and her fear would ring out amidst the tall, dark pine trees. Marking their memories like fire had destroyed their brethren. He watched, stoic, from underneath the cloak, as Rahul's soldiers sliced into the panicked crowd. They had piled up by the river, just as planned, and, among the pounding feet of the running people, children fell and were trampled. An old man crawled toward safety, only to crumble into ash without a sound. His carcass, made of ash, was still in its frightening imagery before it dissipated.

There was a smell in the air, a smell of burning things and blood. Howls of agony, of sorrow, poured into the sky. He turned back to the woman, still screaming, her cries unanswered as the world broke around her. The man, his gun in one hand, used his teeth to tear open her blouse, spilling hot skin out into the air. Her skirt was shoved up to her abdomen, and the wet sounds of his pleasure almost drowned out her screams. The woman was reaching for something, he noticed; it was a crumpled figure beside them. A little girl, her blonde hair red and brown, lay unmoving on the ground. Her skull was crushed in, mashed brain together with bone, and if one looked past her mangled head, it would seem as though the girl were merely asleep.

Her mother continued to scream.

Against the backdrop of blood and noise, smoke curled around the meadow. The clatter of the heavy artillery hitting stone, trees, and people had a no understandable rhythm. Nothing at all seemed to be understandable about this. He stepped over a body, a woman, barely a woman, who had been shredded by blade and sharp projectiles. He treaded across half of a man, torn apart by machine gunfire and so entirely dead, it was a wonder that he had ever lived at all.

A tent with a painted red cross was on fire in the middle of the clearing. A nurse, of sorts, howled outside, begging for help as people ran past, but the patients burned and she was cut down, her crying stopped. A man, one of Rahul's men, was suddenly struck by the Killing Curse.

Interested to see who had accomplished it, he turned and looked at the old man across the meadow. He was pudgy and unthreatening in appearance, but his eyes were desperate with hate and fear.

He knew this man.

Elphias Doge, Dumbledore's old pet, clutched his wand close to his chest before partially disappearing under a Disillusionment charm. He followed the man as he made to flee from the battlefield, likewise invisible, dodging the scenes of gore and destruction. Doge made it to the edge of the wood, six paces from the fallen wards, before he bent with his hands on his knees and suddenly began to sob. The hum of the battle silenced for a moment as he focused on Doge's cries. He took off his cloak, and the old man's head popped up, and he raised his wand in fright.

"I know your face! I know you, Mr. Po—? Mr. _Potter_?" Doge stuttered.

He said nothing.

"You're here to help," said Doge, a hopeful smile twitching onto his face. "We have to go back! So many – so many are….We have to go back!"

"No," he murmured, but loudly enough that Doge heard.

The man floundered, his face the perfect picture of confusion and anguish. "They need help," he croaked. "The Muggles are attacking. They've got weapons – weapons that take away magic. We have to get the Aurors here. Can you—"

"No," he interrupted, stronger now.

"What—"

Stepping forward, listening to Doge's startled panting and the twigs crunching underneath his feet, he stopped when they were nose to nose. Doge stared at him, frightened.

"I did this," he whispered. "I'm a traitor. I kill people. I did this."

Doge stumbled backward. "Mr. Potter, are you q-quite—"

"_I did this_," he bellowed. "I started the war, Doge. I did it." He grasped the man's cloak. "Do you understand?"

The old man did, indeed, understand, because he shot off the Killing Curse at him with a swift, pitiless rage. He moved away from it easily and stared at Doge. The sobs started again.

"You…you awful—" Doge stammered. "_Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!"_

He moved away from the curses, which were thrown at him with power, but not purpose. Doge fell to his knees, his hands to his face as his wand dropped to the floor.

"How could you? _How could you_?" Doge cried, completely giving in and giving up. He took out the sword Rahul's man had given him, a beautiful rapier used by the Calvary. The cut-throat, bloodthirsty Calvary that he had seen covered in gore and happy to be so. It shined in the afternoon sun. It was now late in the day.

"Very easily," he replied, but it sounded weak to his own ears. "Doge. _Doge_!"

The man looked up, his face etched with weariness and capitulation.

"Head down," he said softly, sadly.

"I've seen your face, I've seen you; I know you," Doge was muttering through his tears, dirt in his mouth and blood running down the side of his cheek. He brought the sword up, smelling the burning in the air, and then brought it down. Doge said nothing at all, then.

"So this is what it will be like," he said to himself, sheathing the blade. "This is what I can expect," he breathed.

He walked back through the forest, pushing the Invisibility Cloak up around his shoulders. Despite the fires, it was freezing, and his hands felt brittle and numb. The refugee camp ahead of him was cleared of any life but the armies'. The army of animals he led.

Bodies were piled, waiting to burn, and ash floated in the wind – the remains of no one and everyone. They were pulling a little girl out of the woods, her dress soaked in mud and blood, and her face full of tears. She bawled and screeched, fighting against the laughing men, but then she was on her knees, and the sword went up. The bullets came down.

She was looking at him. "I know your face," she said, her face Petunia's, but not. "You won't come back, right? You're not normal. You're not good."

Fire curled around her body, but still her words remained. He promised to never come back to Fontainebleau, watching as the dead disappeared.

He woke up next to someone. Someone who was shaking him and holding him close.

"I won't come back," he murmured into the bare shoulder. The dream was one, he knew, that would not leave him, not even years from now. Fontainebleau was a memory, but it was just as potent as the day it had happened. "I promise I won't come back."

Harry woke, little by little, until he remembered where he was and why. Draco held him, not looking concerned at all; rather, he looked content. Harry turned his face to the roaring fire in their rooms and swallowed a bout of nausea. Draco laid him back down, and they slept without interruption.


	5. Chapter Four

A/n: Thanks to Amazonia for inspiring the game "Where's Harry?". She's such a glorious gal.

A Few Responses: Supreme Dark Lady Moongoose: Ello Love! How are you? I've got your Mina in this chapter, as promised! But, ha, I deserve the universe? What would I do with it? Actually, I know what I would do with the universe. I'd bring the dinosaurs back. I think dinos are pretty much the funniest thing ever. I don't know why. You asked me how I write so well? Want to hear the bullshit reason? It's because I was gifted by god. Personally. The actual explanation is that I'm kinda insane. Yeah. I do love you though. My sentiments coupled with the fact I've admitted that I'm insane should probably scare you off right now. I hope you don't leave. I take it back!

Ana: See now Harry _thinks_ he losing his mind. But I really don't think the person wondering if they _are_ losing their mind can be considered the best source of trufax. You know what I mean? Plus, for someone who before, didn't care all that much about the human race, and is suddenly feeling remorse for the things he's done-that could be misconstrued as insanity too. But enough of that philosophical fuckery, how are ya? I'm feeling a lot better now, though I won't be for another month or so. RL is sucking. Thanks Ana, lots o' love!

Dean: Они выглядели так страшно в коробочки, крича, что они были дешевы и милые...и не съедобные. Это чертовски грустно, человек. Мы ужасные люди. Китай-город является обязательным, и на этот раз, mожет быть, нам не будет так чертовски бессердечный. SHIT.

Warnings for this chapter: sentiments, family time, a little angst, and bad language.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Four

To the best of his ability, Alejandro Guillermo listened to Mina Novikov. It was no secret that he was deaf in his left ear and regularly had a guard with him because of that rather sad actuality. He hated the lack of privacy, but he recognized that the security was more than necessary. As the head of the Guillermo family, his feuds were his father's heirlooms, left behind for Alejandro when he'd passed. His son, Antonio, would have to take up his debts when he too was dead, as would every Guillermo after him, as had all those before him.

The perpetual silence that plagued Alejandro in his left ear was, most thought, a weakness. In the beginning, many of the assassins who had gone after the head of the Guillermo family had attacked him from the left. What they didn't know was that, bar his hearing, Alejandro's senses were primed and practiced at evading any threat. They had soon learned, switched tactics, and found out (again and rather painfully) that their target was no paltry fool. No matter what goddamn disabilities he had, their efforts would be fruitless. The would-be mercenaries left him alone after that, fearing some concentrated power that made him invincible, when, really, one only had to _pay attention_ to lessen the chances of death.

This was why he felt somewhat guilty for not listening to Mina. He was good at focusing, usually, but Mina's words were thoughtful and deserving of much consideration.

"Did you know he would be the one to meet with me?" she was asking in that blunt way of hers that was frequently misconstrued as purposeful intimidation.

"No," he confessed, his eyebrows rising briefly. "I would have told you, Mina, had I known," Alejandro chided gently.

"Yes, yes." She waved a hand, drinking that jet-fuel brew her people swore by. He wondered how many glasses it would take for her to lose her wits. She'd gone through one bottle already.

Mina sighed. "I'm afraid to like him, Andro," she explained, reaching up to scrub at her forehead. "Did you hear of what he did to Lukasz?"

Alejandro made a reproachful sound in the back of his throat. "Of course I did. His family and his patrons are in an uproar over it. He deserved it, though, for provoking an enemy," he admitted, though not unkindly. "Make no mistake about that."

"Oh, he was a real piece of shit," Mina harangued the dead man. "But Lukasz called a blood feud, and Brooks voided it."

Now that was something he _hadn't _known. "How on earth did he do _that_? The Lukasz family would need to carry on the feud," he exclaimed.

Mina shook her head. "When he killed Lukasz, he murdered his own family as well. An Aunt, an

Uncle, and a cousin," she revealed, her eyes alight with excitement.

"Three for three," Alejandro whispered. "Jana, Oscar, and Kort. _By the Gods_, he voided it out!"

"And he killed his own family to do it," Mina reminded him, seeming shocked at her own words. "That is what is worrying me. He would kill his own blood simply to destroy the Lukasz family. They are destroyed in power now; the blood feud had given them something to go on. But now? Now they are useless and without a leader, all because of the war – they were marked for _death_."

Alejandro blinked. "It's an evil sort of genius," he felt inclined to compliment. "But Kort brought them into descent long before Brooks finished it, you know?"

"But _listen_, will you?" She leaned forward in her seat, an open expression on her face that displayed all of her desperation. "If he can kill his own blood for this war, who is to say he won't dispose of _anyone_ who challenges him?"

Alejandro thought about her words for a minute or so. Weighing the strengths of her argument, he, soon enough, found oppositions to it.

"Do you think him an honorable man, Mina?" he questioned, albeit hesitantly.

She started. "I think him an honorable _boy_, surely," was her answer, the last swallow in her snifter burning, Alejandro judged by her grimace. "He's young and ambitious. But yes, I think him honorable. So you see my upset, yes?"

"Perhaps there are things we do not know about his family. Perhaps he had reason to kill them?"

"Oh, I wouldn't ask," she objected quickly. "He pled that I not tell anyone of the destruction of the blood feud. The Lukaszs' know, but they are scared into silence. He spoke of the events to a confidant, Andro. I wouldn't betray that, and neither am I the sort to press for details."

"_Betray_ him, Mina?"

She was modest enough to blush. "He speaks highly of you, so I don't think he would mind." The woman shrugged.

"I would need to meet him, honestly, to provide a good argument for your fears," he told her, shuffling on the comfortable divan. "Not that I do not trust your opinion, of course."

"He has admitted his desire to meet with you as well, though he wonders at your actions in the last few months. He's suspicious, Andro."

He observed her grey pallor and obvious tiredness, evident in her every movement as she turned the glass of liquor in her hands. "My actions?" he queried casually, perhaps too casually.

Mina had been waiting for this. "Moving behind his back, trying to get Kort to see sense, extending alliances in secret…I don't need to say more, Andro, do I?"

Alejandro smiled. "He wants to know what _I want_ in return," he clarified.

"Well, yes," Mina said, peering at him closely. "What _do _you want?"

He had not come to Russia unprepared. Mina knew his arrival there had been for the sole intention of what he was about to say to her right now. If his plans proved unstinted and precise, he had already prepared a conversation with Henry Brooks that would reveal just as much as Mina was unintentionally asking for. Alejandro had expected this question as well, though not from Mina. The woman was partial to leaving machinations to the masters, after all. She did only for the good of her family and country.

Her asking this question foretold of the influence Brooks had already impressed upon her. Mina was _involved _in this war, no matter how hard she fought it; she was so closely tied to the campaign now that she had met and unreservedly befriended its leader. She could refute the attributes and vices of Henry Brooks all she wanted, but her choice had ceased to matter the moment the boy had stepped through her door.

Alejandro was not afraid the same would happen to him. He was of the opinion, even having never met Brooks, that the boy was something else entirely different than simply an ambitious child. Close watch on Henry's movements had allowed Alejandro to cautiously respect the lad, perhaps to even admire him. It would be very arrogant to say he understood the war better than anyone else besides Brooks, but he did, and he heartily approved of a little superciliousness from time to time. The bosses and leaders and allies Henry had collected sought only power, indubitably, but Alejandro, from the moment the world had whispered of a revolution, had understood the young man and his extraordinary rise to power.

Therefore, he had acted, without the confidence of Henry Brooks, not only to ensure their alliance, but also to strengthen the connection between them. They were almost alarmingly alike, perfectly coupled to complete this dream. Only, Brooks did not know he had a partner yet. He did not know he had a fellow to help with the burden.

"You are beginning to understand," he said to Mina. "This war has very little to do with man's power. I want nothing more from Henry Brooks but to help him," he finally spoke, and his tone was sincere.

"I _don't _understand that," she countered fiercely. "What is there to gain but power? Blood and country are power, if they are honorable. I cherish nothing more."

He reached out and patted her hand. "Not knowing has made you conflicted with your own words, and with your heart."

"But I'm not!" Mina shouted, angry now. "Brooks _told _me of his task!"

Enormously pleased, Alejandro sat back. "He did, did he?"

"And I'm coming to see that you believe him!" Mina accused, scowling terribly. "He told me I was the only one who knew about that day."

Alejandro could not have Mina thinking the boy had lied. He hadn't, indeed, and that he had told Mina of his 'task' said a lot about the stress Brooks felt, said a lot about his difficulties with duty. He was glad Mina knew, though, because she was a great friend and a realist. She would be logical but receptive to his ideas.

"You misunderstood, my dear," he consoled her gently, and she raised her eyes to show a hope that some would think weak. "I have never spoken to Henry Brooks, but I had an idea of what made this war come to light."

"And what idea was that?"

He watched the shadows play on her face before licking his lips and nodding briefly. "Men do little when there is no belief in purpose. Perhaps Henry Brooks woke up one day and decided to change the world. Perhaps he took the words of others to heart and wrote his own story. On paper, his intentions seem grand and true, but alive, breathing, could it be that Henry has no task but what he's invented? _Purpose_. _Belief_. Mina, these things drive men to war, and Henry isn't anyone different. But he's told you of a task, one that I do not know about, so I cannot pertinently advise you."

"You think it's a lie, to gain my trust?" she breathed, her face red.

"I need to speak to Henry Brooks," he said simply. "But no, Mina, he spoke the truth to you. The truth to himself. Whether it is fallacious, I cannot say."

"I could tell—"

Alejandro smiled. "And betray his confidence?" he chastised. "I won't ask you to do that. Let me watch a little more."

Her eyes followed him as he rose, ready to retire, more for her benefit than his. Mina did look so very drained and small on the sofa, and her horrible liking for a straight drink had caused bright red splotches to blossom her cheeks. "But why me?" she asked quickly, as if he would vanish.

Weighing her words, Alejandro frowned. Then, softly, he said, "Because he must have seen Mina, not Novikov. Because he liked you as much as you liked him, my love."

She blushed, but then she got up as well, to walk him out. The guards waited on either side of the door, curious despite themselves, and they both warmly nodded to them as they exited. Mina grabbed his hand with both of hers, giving a small, self-deprecating laugh. "You must think me weak for wanting him to find a friend in me," she fretted sadly.

Alejandro turned his head with comic innocence. "What was that? I'm sorry, I'm deaf in one ear, you see," he joked.

_A weakness for a weakness, Mina._

She laughed. "I shall see you soon, Andro," she said, grinning affectionately.

"Good night, beautiful." He kissed her hand and took off down the hall, his guards following behind him.

.o00o.

"Terrible business, this," Sirius said gruffly, flattening out the _Daily Prophet_ with a flourish. "Almost ten thousand dead in France! Bollocks this war."

"Sirius Black!" Mrs. Weasley shouted in offense. "No talk of that at the dinner table. I've told you before!"

"Leave off, Molly," he scoffed, looking at her over the top of the headline. "The kids know what's happening. _Everyone _knows what's happening."

The Weasley children pretended to not be listening, wary of the box to the ears they would receive for looking curious. Fred and George did not hide their interest, however.

"The Aurors were there, yeah?" Fred asked intently, dodging his mother's hand.

"Not in time," Sirius grumbled. "Just like every attack that's happened, they were only alerted _after the fact_. Mighty suspect, if you're asking me."

"I told you—" Molly began shrilly.

"Molly," Arthur spoke up suddenly, cutting her off. "They'll be going back to school in a week, and they'll know then, anyway."

Ron and Ginny both perked up at this, casting a quick glance at their mother before pouncing on Sirius. "Have you heard what Scrimgeour plans on doing?" Ron prodded.

"What'll they do now? The _Statute of Secrecy _is bloody useless!"

"Is it another Dark Lord?"

"These are _Muggles_, Ron!"

"Yeah, but why would they do this to us? It's bad form, isn't it?"

Arthur responded to their queries instead, seeing as Sirius looked a bit overwhelmed. "The Ministry is unable to do more at the moment," he sighed. "They aren't up against a Dark Lord. It's not just one tyrant anymore. It's the Muggle world at large that's after us."

Pausing to take a sip of his tea, Arthur gave his wife a sad, reconciled smile. "The Ministry is trying to gain a foothold internationally, so as to at least have every Wizarding country working together, but there's civil war everywhere. We aren't organized enough to fight a war against the Muggles. And it shows."

"But we're Wizards!" Ron objected quickly. "We have magic…and the Muggles—"

"How can you think like that, Ron?" Ginny interrupted furiously. "Thousands of people, _Wizards and Witches,_ are dead. Muggles are obviously not inferior at all!"

"She's right, Ron," Arthur nodded. "Believing that Muggles are defenseless is obviously what got us into this mess in the first place."

"There's word they've got weapons," Sirius told them rather ardently. "Weapons made to kill Wizards. No one can get a hold of one, and no one's _seen_ them to give us a description of their power. It's all rumor."

Ron scoffed. "I don't believe that," he said. "All those attacks, and no one's seen these weapons?"

"No one has survived to see them, Ron," Sirius said without reserve. "When the Muggles attack, they kill everyone. And they do it in isolated, random magical places, where help only arrives when it's too late. The few survivors from the attacks are either in hiding or too despaired to speak of what happened. The Muggles are thorough, Ron; they sweep through the living and kill or incapacitate the people who might help us."

"That's enough!" Molly shouted, looking frightened and overwrought. Sirius glared at her, but then he noticed that her children did seem quite disturbed. He grimaced.

"Do they know who's behind it all?" Ron asked quietly. "Who their leader is?"

Sirius shook his head, so, instead, Mr. Weasley answered his son. "Every Muggle leader in the world knows of our existence. We took the initiative long ago to keep them informed. The question isn't who is involved, Ron, but who isn't. We let too many know, thinking that they would be perfectly amenable to the Statute, and so we caused this, with our oversight and arrogance," he exhaled and dipped his head. "_This_ is what happened, Ron."

"You can't say only we're to blame, Arthur," Molly said, turning about and looking as though she wanted to cry. "People are dead! Dying! Our kind!"

"Molly…."

She hopped up from her seat so quickly it startled everyone at the table. "It's disgusting, what some people will do for power, and you sound as if you're…as if you're _agreeing_ to it!"

"Molly," he interjected swiftly, wary of her temper. "I _don't _agree with it, but I _do_ understand."

"He's right, Molly," Sirius said calmly. "It was bound to happen some time."

Arthur gave him a look that said he had better shut up. The subject was dropped, much to Sirius' disgruntlement, while Molly visibly controlled herself and said, "When can we expect Chrissie?"

"It's Harry now, Molls," Arthur reminded her. "Half past seven."

Harry was going to be staying with the Weasleys for the last week of summer, and then he would leave with the rest of the Weasley children to attend Hogwarts for the first time as a student. Sirius thought it fitting that he should see his godson off, given that he had lost his chance all those years he'd wasted in Azkaban. Never mind the fact that Harry hadn't gone to Hogwarts at all during the years of his imprisonment. Harry would be his for the next week, to get to know, to spoil, and Sirius really couldn't be any happier about it – except, he wouldn't be the only one vying for Harry's attentions.

Molly had asked at what time Harry was to arrive about eight different times during the day, and Ron had actually cleaned his room in an attempt to make space for his best friend. Ginny had a perpetual attitude going on, Fred and George looked mischievous and excited, and even Arthur, who had been rather pensive and withdrawn since the Wizarding World had been exposed, seemed to be perky in light of Harry's visit.

They had all agreed not to speak of the war with Harry. He was, no doubt, tired of war, given the way he'd quickly ended the last one, and Molly told them all heatedly that the lad deserved a break from political talk and plotting. Then again, Sirius thought differently; he was of the opinion that Harry, as the reported liaison for Muggle Britain, would know a fair bit more about the inside workings of the Ministry than they would. And, being his father's son, would likely not wish to keep his family in the dark when it could be potentially harmful. He had told Arthur of his belief that Harry would confide in them, but the man had only nodded, choosing to remain silent instead.

Having had their pudding, a favorite of Harry's, apparently, they sat around the table to wait for the boy. Anticipation did not prevent Fred and George from pulling a prank on Ron, who was fiercely defended by Ginny until he called her a _girl,_ and the squabbling finally rose to a high pitch before it abruptly fell silent. There was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it!" Ron and Ginny shouted, jumping up. There was a ruckus in their competition for the door.

"Why's he coming in that way?" Sirius asked Arthur bemusedly.

"Something of a tradition," Molly responded, smiling gently. They listened to the sound of Ron and Ginny greeting Harry happily, and then the smooth baritone of Harry's gentle-but-firm voice responding. Sirius found himself grinning, having missed that confident tone of his, and when Harry emerged in the kitchen, a book bag on one shoulder, Sirius stood up.

Harry looked tired, and Sirius wanted to clasp the boy, but he felt it would be a bit too informal to his godson, who he had yet to get to know properly. Therefore, he hesitated as he stood there, smiling gently at Harry but not moving. Sirius realized, rather belatedly, that Harry had brought someone with him.

The man was a bit shorter than him; though that didn't mean he was short by any means, since Sirius himself was considered rather tall. They looked to be around the same age. Grey had sprinkled his thick, dark hair, which fell in waves across his skull. His dark eyes were framed by personably caterpillar-like eyebrows. There was stubble across his jaw and over his lips, which, at the moment, were turned up in a light smirk. He was dressed in tailored clothes, like Harry, and obviously wore the best that Muggle money could buy; though he had a simpler taste that spoke of less affectation than most. Sirius noticed the likeness in the two. It wasn't so much a physical likeness as it was a likeness in mannerisms.

Harry and the stranger stood in exactly the same way, with their arms loose and ready at their sides, shoulders back, and head tilted upward in a full body display of confidence and caution. They smiled the same, a tiny lift of the left side of their lips, and, when dreadfully amused, they both closed their eyes briefly, as if physically needing to switch from gentle humor to absolute hilarity, before a blooming grin accompanied the opening of their eyes. Their laughter was husky, deep, and attractive. Obviously, they found Fred's and George's torturing of the younger siblings amusing.

Sirius was busy watching the stranger when Harry suddenly made his way over. He snapped to attention and shook Harry's hand enthusiastically. Surprisingly, Harry pulled him forward and hugged him briefly. Despite the discomfort Harry felt – Sirius could tell by his stiffening shoulders that Harry was embarrassed – Sirius felt honored that he'd been given a hug at all. Perhaps the fact that Harry was embarrassed that he had even done it was a sign of affection as well.

"How are you, Sirius?" Harry asked, and there was genuine concern in Harry's voice. Sirius blinked.

"I'm well, Harry. Well enough to be getting on with," he said, grinning now. He gestured to the stranger. "Who's he when he's at home?" he asked.

Harry laughed and gestured for the man to come forward. Sirius shook his hand companionably. "This is Denny," Harry introduced. "My dad."

So _this _was the man who had become a father to James's son. Sirius could not decide what to think of this man, this Denny. He was an intimidating sort of person, gruff and coarse and somebody Sirius would have normally liked instantly. But this was his godson's adopted father. What _could_ he think?

Molly, it seemed, was having the exact thoughts he was. "Oh," she said, rather shocked. "How do you do?"

"Well, ma'am," Denny grinned. "And you must be Henry's mum."

She blushed outrageously as he moved to hug her tightly. Despite herself, Molly seemed to like Denny very much. Sirius was surprised at his brogue, given the fact that he had thought the man was from New York, or some other wild place that Harry had gone to. When Harry spoke, the influence of Denny's accent was clear, and Sirius finally pin-pointed the cadence his godson's voice had that he had been quite confused about before.

"You must be Henry's dad." Denny was greeting Arthur warmly when Sirius' mind came back to him.

"Not in the legal sense," Arthur said, smiling slightly. "Not as you are."

Harry and Denny laughed, and Sirius started at the sound. _So alike_.

"Legal sense, eh, Den?" Harry nudged him with amused eyes.

"Never done a thing legally," Denny told them proudly, nudging Henry back. "And neither has Hen here."

"You'll have a lot in common with Sirius, then," Ron said before he could stop himself, looking sheepish when his mother yelled "Ronald!" in reproach.

"Aye?" Denny said, turning to look at Sirius gleefully. "I bet you aren't an escaped convict, Black. I'll win this round!"

Sirius had to grin. "I've got you there. Has Harry not told you about my notorious break out?" he heckled.

Denny looked at Henry, who nodded. "Crime and punishment, eh?" Denny hooted. "Bet you're not as good with the birds as I am, though!"

Harry groaned. Sirius barked out a laugh and said, "I'll have you know that just yesterday—"

"Sirius Black! I will not have you talking about your numerous sexual escapades around the children!" Molly shouted.

Denny guffawed and moved forward to shake Sirius' hand again. "Good to meet you, good to meet you." He gestured to Harry. "You can help me with that one over there."

"I hardly think criminals are the best guardians," Molly interjected crossly.

Sirius knew she was peeved that anyone would be proud of being an escaped convict (_really, now_, she seemed to say) and annoyed at Sirius for being indecently approving. Where Sirius appeared properly chastised, Denny seemed to find it all ridiculously amusing.

"Have you met Henry?" he crowed, slapping Harry on the back. "The lad makes the worst criminals look like a piker. He _needs_ convicts to keep him in line."

"Shut up, Denny," Harry said, though not spitefully at all. In fact, the lad looked to be restraining a mad grin.

Molly's lips twitched.

"Alright, I'd best be going," Denny told them with a mild salute. "It was a pleasure meeting Henry's family."

Blushing again, Molly smiled at Denny warmly. "Won't you stay for dinner?"

"Ach, no, I've got business. I'm overworked, you know."

Harry put a hand on Denny's shoulder and led him out. "You're lazy is what you are," he muttered.

"Better that than a poof with no morals," Denny countered, waving a hand at everyone. There was a chorus of goodbyes.

"At least I get some, Denny."

"Arse."

"Fuck face."

They made their way out the door they came in, and Sirius glanced at Molly, who had given up that disapproving glare and had turned back to the dishes with a small smile on her face. Harry came back in not even moments later, greeting his family (in all but blood) with a sparkle in his eyes. He sat next to Sirius at the table.

.o00o.

Denny gestured the guards to their places deftly, relaying Henry's instructions on where they were to be stationed. In the small second it had taken for Henry to put up the wards, each of the armed soldiers had all made it within the boundary, and Denny went through them quickly to make sure no one with ill-intent had slipped in. Everything had gone according to plan, however, and he left the guards around the Burrow to their job. They would switch out every four hours, and Henry had set up headquarters for them at Tyler's house with a myriad of Portkeys to take them there and back. They were consigned to only a few posts, and restricted by contract to not speak of whom they were guarding, but, all and all, their situation was lucky. They had Mary's Cottage pie to look forward to and tea and biscuits for when they got off their shifts.

Denny was not allowed the same luxuries; he was off to New York the next morning to meet with Frank, who had called him in panic two nights ago regarding Henry. He worried, and he hoped that Henry would get some much-needed rest with his family. He looked back at the Burrow and tried to ignore the longing deep within him to be with his son, lest anything terrible happen. But everything would be fine, he knew. It was just Denny being a dad that made things hard.

.o00o.

The field of tall grass reached to the top of Ginny's head. She pulled it away hurriedly, breathing deeply through her nose, and waited. No sounds of shuffling through the long lanyards of green betrayed movement close to her, and she felt her heart beat frantically as she listened. Light from the moon that was just barely rising illuminated the acre of land briefly, and she turned about to look back at the Burrow. The candles visible in the windows would guide her out of the field, but she couldn't chance running yet. Bugs, which were usually loud, had gone silent after she had run though the brush, noisy and intrusive to them, no doubt. All she could hear now was the sound of her own breath.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Then there was a minute noise, the movement of a patch of grass like the parting of the sea, and she screamed.

"It!"

She bellowed at him fiercely while trying to calm her heart, which wanted very much to fly out of her chest. Harry laughed maniacally, placed both hands over his mouth, and shouted:

"All ye, all ye, outs in free!"

"You cheated!" Ginny howled at him once he'd stopped yelling. In the distance, she could hear her brothers quarrelling.

Harry chuckled and set off back to the Burrow; Ginny was close behind him, mumbling curses. "I didn't use magic, if that's what you're thinking," Harry tried to pacify her.

"No," she bit out, and then she stopped where she was. "But you've got inhuman incognito skills."

Harry thought this terribly amusing, and he cackled rather madly. "I sure do," he said, going back to her and swinging an arm around her shoulder. "Maybe you shouldn't make me seeker then. Fred _did_ suggest Bulldogs."

"We should have played Sardines," Ron said, huffing as he emerged through the grass in front of them.

"Don't be stupid," Ginny snapped. "Remember the last time we played Sardines with Fred and George?"

Ron looked as if the incident had only just happened, and it was so horrifying that he would possibly forsake both eating and sleeping to not remember the dreaded game of Sardines.

"What did they do?" Harry asked, grinning.

Ron tugged him toward the edge of the field. "You don't want to know, mate," he said, haunted.

They met back at home base, out of breath and giggling, and thought it okay to have one more go before dinner. Ginny crossed her arms, angry about having to seek when Harry had so obviously cheated.

"I don't know, guys," Harry said slyly. "I vote for Sardines next."

There was a flurry of shouting all at once. Fred's and George's cheers of approval were very nearly drowned out by Ron and Ginny's cries of desperation. Ron looked a hair's breadth away from bolting.

"Harry, mate, that's a wonderful idea!"

"You've never played Sardines with us, have you?"

"We've got different rules, you know!"

"The adult version, if you like."

The twins were in his space, and Harry pushed them away teasingly. "You can't just fix up games with your own rules, gits," he argued.

Ginny put a hand on her hip. "I don't know about that. They renamed Sardines years ago. Didn't change up the rules, though. One person hides, the rest of us try to find him and hide too. Same old Sardines."

Harry frowned.

"They called it 'Where's Harry,'" Ron told him.

"Why'd they do that?" he asked in surprise.

Fred scoffed loudly. "Because of you, mate," he said, rolling his eyes. "The boy-who-lived vanished after he defeated the big bad Dark Lord. Little mite that your were—"

"Little ickle baby—"

"Nobody knew where you were. So the kids started calling it 'Where's Harry.'"

"Heard your story every night before bed, actually," Ginny added, trying not to smile.

"Once upon a time, there was a little ickle baby—"

"Named Harrykins Potter—"

"Who looked a bit like a Garden gnome and Winston Churchhill."

"Oi!" Harry yelled. "That's enough already. I'll have you know that I find this incredibly disturbing. It's not funny at all."

"It's true though, innit?" Ron plodded on, picking at a piece of grass to chew on. "Only problem was _everyone_ wanted to be you and not the seekers. Made for a lot of brawling."

Ginny watched Harry's face closely, noticing his grimace of distaste at their words, and, though she didn't fully understand it, she reached out to jostle Ron. "Let's get on with it! Mum's going to call us in soon."

"Gin's it, isn't she?" George shouted gleefully, grabbing his brother and preparing to run. "A hundred, Ginny Gin Gin!"

She cursed him as they ran off, Ron and Harry scrambling after them noisily. The night came upon them and the animals sang. Ginny looked at the moon briefly before hiding her face into her hands. It was getting cold.

"Bollocks. 1...2...3...100."

.o00o.

"What are you doing?"

Harry looked up at Sirius with a smile, motioning to his book and parchment with one hand.

"Homework," he responded.

Sirius sat down across from him and turned the book upside down to look at the cover.

"Potions?" he said, aghast.

"Yeah, well…" he stopped and sat back, running his quill across his lips thoughtfully. "Snape's trying to get me caught up for seventh year."

"Ah, right." Sirius frowned. "Minerva mentioned that. She said Snape was asking for money to do it."

Harry lifted a shoulder. "Supposed to help with research funds, apparently," Harry told him. "Or to buy a new wardrobe that doesn't make him look like The Count."

Sirius grinned. "I know for certain he isn't buying shampoo."

Harry scoffed, putting down his quill with a little more force than necessary. "Hair jokes. You know, Hogwarts has about a million jokes about his hair. He says it's from the potion's fumes, but, honestly, when does he have the time to slave over potions when he's not teaching or trying to get people in trouble? I say he spends about as much time on his own potions as the average Potions student does. So how on earth does his hair look like a wet mop when everyone else's hair is fine? Something doesn't add up."

Mouth open, Sirius blinked. "Uh…" he cleared his throat. "I think you're thinking about this too much."

"You know what I think, Sirius," Harry continued, leaning forward to whisper conspiringly. "I think he does it on purpose!"

Sirius bit his lip. "So that people will keep away from him?" he hedged.

"No, so that we'll sit about on a nice day like this and speculate why his hair is greasier than a '57 Thunderbird."

"You've got jokes!" Sirius guffawed madly.

Harry grinned. "I'm funnier than I look."

Sirius laughed harder. Harry invited his godfather to come outside with him, and they traipsed through the kitchen and out the back door, waylaid by Molly only briefly so that she could hand them both a hot bun and a cup of tea. Harry leaned against the side of the house, lighting a smoke and inhaling with rather transparent delight.

"You want one?" he asked Sirius, who was wide-eyed and stiff next to him.

"Does Molly know you're out here smoking?"

Harry leaned his head back and enjoyed the slight breeze of the day. "No, and we'd best be quiet about it," he said before he handed Sirius a fag.

The man looked at it carefully. "I haven't smoked in years," he confessed to Harry. "Got a light?"

He lit it for Sirius and passed it to him. Even if it had been years since Sirius had last smoked, the man really seemed to enjoy it, and Harry couldn't help but smile.

"You shouldn't smoke, you know," Sirius told him.

Harry laughed. "That your godfather-ly advice of the day?" he mocked gently.

"I've got to at least make an effort," Sirius said, exhaling happily. "We haven't gotten a chance to speak about… well, I sort of have to ask. Er…" He ran a hand through his hair, and then blurted, "How are things at the Ministry?"

He watched his godson sigh deeply, his every countenance weary. His eyes were trained across the courtyard, however, on a gnome who was trying, without success, to fend off an attack from a chicken that had escaped from the henhouse. Ron had forgotten to lock the gate again.

"It's…chaos. Unmitigated chaos, really," Harry said, but then suddenly burst out laughing as the chicken nearly pecked the caterwauling gnome to death. "Look at that, then!" he said, pointing his cigarette at the mess.

Sirius seemed to find it about as funny as Harry did. Then, as the brawling intensified, some sort of object from an open window of the house came flying out. It crashed in between the two quarrelers and exploded into a shower of black dust. Harry recognized it as Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, and he moved out from underneath the alcove to see Fred and George sticking their heads out of the topmost window.

"Got 'em!"

The shrieks of the chicken and the gnome continued until, out of the dark cloud in front of them, the gnome waddled off to the safety of another Wizard's yard. From inside, Ron had come out to inspect the trouble, and a new round of bickering ensued.

"Ah, Weasleys," Sirius said with amusement as Harry leaned against the wall again.

"That's who I'm worried about," Harry said, going right back into the subject as if they hadn't been interrupted. "The Prime Minister has modified his Floo somehow, so I can't very well ask to see him. I'm pretty much useless as a liaison; that much should be obvious. I don't really know anything. All I know is that the Minister has got to step up, or more people are going to get hurt. And if my family does, I'll be having words with him. Floo or not."

Harry stopped there and lit another cigarette. He seemed to be thinking about something rather important for quite a long while. He suddenly turned to Sirius with a keen eye. "Can I ask you something?"

Sirius frowned but nodded.

"What do you think about this war?"

If Harry thought he would think it an odd question, he was wrong, for Arthur and Sirius had gone over it from top to bottom in the first few weeks of the attacks. Sirius had even asked the same question to many others.

"Well," he began, flicking the cigarette away. "Most Wizards are frightened. This isn't like the witch hunts, or anything so trivial, it's a full-on tactical war with them. And we're losing. Many of the more radical Wizards in the community – and, by that, I mean purebloods – are blaming Muggleborns for exposing us. They're prohibited against attacking Muggleborns, of course, but, as I'm sure you know…that won't last long."

"The Ministry just fired close to two hundred Muggleborn workers in the last month," Harry acknowledged. "Thinking they're spies."

"Well, they could be; I'm not stupid enough to rule that out," Sirius said. "Not that I think it's because they—"

"It's not about blood anymore," Harry cut him off. "This isn't about blood."

"Right," Sirius agreed, licking his lips. "It's about two worlds bollocksing everything up. We're outnumbered, and, with these fabled 'weapons'…" he paused and seemed to give up on some internal battle waging inside of him. He asked Harry for another cigarette. "Arthur thinks we were sold out by someone hungry for destruction. That, though the actual war was pretty predictable – I mean, we expected it would happen some time – this leader of the Muggles is likely a Wizard. I think he's got a point."

Harry gave an indifferent shake of his head. "And you?" he asked, turning to his godfather. "You've told me what everyone else thinks. It sounded like you were building up to something there."

Sirius chuckled and took a deep drag. "I'm never that systematic, kid. I know there was point in there somewhere," he retorted, grinning, but then he sobered. "It has to be about the destruction, doesn't it? People, both magical and Muggle, are dying. You heard about the attack on the refugee camp?"

Harry looked down at his feet. "Yeah," he breathed. "I heard."

"Bloody cold. Merciless. Arthur and I both acknowledged it as a good strategy, but only a person damn set on destroying fuck-all would have no problem killing neutrals. Voldemort did that, but never to this extent. It's like they don't want anyone to survive—"

"I don't think that," Harry told him. "Maybe it's one of those revolutionary things. Anyway, how do you know this was all one person's doing?"

His godfather raised an eyebrow. "Because the war feels like it's on strings, like it was with Voldemort. Because it feels like it was orchestrated, and very carefully so. Because, long before anything happened, some people could smell it on the wind," Sirius explained cryptically.

Harry glared. "You're fucking with me," he accused.

Sirius held up his fingers and made a tiny space in between his pointer and thumb. "I might be, just a little bit, yeah," he jeered.

"Ah, but, you know," Sirius went on, rubbing his arm where Harry had hit him. "Whereas purebloods are going into fits, others are horrified and philosophical about it all. They have Dumbledore's ideals about integration, see. So, you've got a bunch of old tossers sitting about trying to understand the brain of this war. Not everyone is angry, but many are mystified."

"You sound like you don't think it's philosophical."

A cold breeze blew across their faces, freezing Harry's nose quickly, and he realized his smoke had gone out. He relit it. "Maybe this person believes in something more than destruction," he added.

Sirius looked at him and smiled. "I reckon that's a load of bullshit," he said wryly. "People don't think like that, Harry; they don't do things if there isn't something selfish involved. If they do go on faith, they're nutters, and nutters fucking up the world is an old story."

Harry closed his eyes and reached up to rub some tiredness away. When he opened them, Sirius was staring. "What do think, then?" he suddenly asked. "I'm blathering on about it, when you should know, better than anyone, what the Ministry is up to."

They both didn't understand just how they had developed such excellent reflexes, but when Molly stuck her head out the back window and started yelling, their smokes were stubbed out before she could notice. They stood there, looking entirely innocent.

"Fred! George! Did you do something to Wallaby?"

"Her and the gnome were at it again, mum," Fred answered.

"Not _that_ way Ron! Don't look so pale."

"If her eggs are black, I'll wallop you!"

Harry laughed. "Who names a chicken Wallaby?" He grinned, glad for the interruption and glad to be witness to Wallaby's misfortune, however evil that was.

Sirius raised both of his hands in surrender, and, rather charmingly, said, "Weasleys?"


	6. Chapter Five

A/n: It's a short chapter, but I needed to address a few things and get the kids to school. You'll all be happy to hear that this one features Harry going to Hogwarts legit-ly for the first time. Will he get sorted? Will I indulge in clichés? Will I create another subplot emphasizing the futility of morals while man is at war? Beg me not to. Alright, back to the business. Good luck everybody who has finals, I know its been a hell of a week for me. Remember to review!

A Few Responses: Dean: Вы должны знать, к настоящему времени не говорить о КГБ на фанфик странице. Они наслаждаются моей интерпретации эпическое путешествие Гарри. Они, как убийства, изнасилования и кражи в истории. Это лучшая часть. Ну, я бы лучше сообщение для неблагодарных Лохи читают эту дерьмо. Никто из них не волнует, как много работы, я вложил в нее. Я делаю большую услугу фанфик, письма, и человечество, путем размещения соответствующей. И для чего? Они даже не замечают. Fucking retarded.

Ana: Thanks love! Why is life in the shitter? I can understand why it would be...but I hope nothing too bad is weighing you down with despair. I hope this chapter cheers you up some, and that things start looking up. No, I think I'll ask you to keep your positivity this time, and I'll some more of my own, just to make sure you've got enough :) love!

Supreme Dark Lady Mongoose: I like Chrissie too. But Chrissie will come back later in the story and it won't be much of a term of endearment. Also, I'm trying to get Harry to lose all of his aliases so that he can be just Harry by the time this is through. Ha! See what I did there? Oh, and yes, you can have the universe after I bring the dinos back. I won't need the universe. Seriously, dinos are such choice creatures. T-Rex plays a mean game of Hold 'em. I wanna have a smoke with a T-Rex. For real. Much love forever!

Dedication: to the part of me that thought it was acceptable to have an authors note longer than the chapter, and to Amazonia for being wonderful and brilliant and lovely. I love you.

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of death, gore, fluff, sexual situations, angst, and language.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Five

Over the week that Sirius Black got to know his godson, a number of Harry's more interesting attributes came to light.

At present, the most prevalent attribute occupying his attention was the fact that Harry could dance. Ron, however, evidently could not – and really shouldn't. It would be the subject of a quarrel if anyone mentioned it to Ron, so, naturally, Fred and George felt inclined to do so. They were currently mercilessly teasing their seething brother, who had not, despite the hooting and hollering, given up his attempt at imitating Harry's moves. Harry had been laughingly patient with his friend, but he soon gave up his tutelage in order to coerce Mrs. Weasley into a waltz.

Sirius laughed along with them, turning to see if Arthur was in the least bit jealous that his wife had been stolen by a rather debonair young man. Arthur only gazed at his family with a sort of tired, preoccupied look about him. Occasionally, he would turn his eyes away to stare into his lukewarm tea, stirring it absently, before smiling wistfully as the laughter permeated through his quaint little home. Sirius sighed, crossing his arms and turning back to the grinning Harry and the charmingly flushed Molly. The end-of-summer sounds washed through him, reminding him that it was time for his godson to leave. That it was time for the Burrow to fall silent once more.

He knew what Arthur thought about, over there in his seclusion, his obviously distressing contemplation. Sirius didn't blame him for being withdrawn, for there was only so much a man could do to protect his family, and Arthur (indubitably) was quite worried about his children. But it was an odd thing that Arthur would not at least try to disregard the outside world while with his family. Indeed, he had kept up that relentless cheer during the worst with Voldemort, and though this war was a bit more damaging, and no doubt frighteningly more-widespread, there was little he could do besides protect his assets, pray, and, when it was needed, fight. He saw no reason, therefore, that Arthur should be somber with his family for trying so hard to be in good spirits. Sirius shook himself briefly and leaned up against the wall. He was being too hard on Arthur. Too hard on a man who needed to think.

Harry was the same. In this moment, when he was enjoying his time with the Weasleys, Sirius recognized the incident as a rarity, and he was happy to witness it. The boy remained a veritable conundrum, and, even after a week of getting to know him, Sirius doubted he could ever figure the boy out. He doubted anyone really knew him at all. For heaven's sakes, James had never been so complicated! A lyric-less beat came on, on that Sirius immediately felt was the catalyst to a rather enormous headache, but Harry was dancing to that too, pulling a giggling Ginny close.

Despite it all, neither of them were solemn all of the time. Harry had moments such as this, when he was warm and unwearied, when he was acting more his age. Per contra, he also had moments of absolute frostiness, complete with an unapproachable demeanor that irritated Sirius as much as it frightened him. Marked moments when Harry would brood and silently stare, when he would make Mr. Weasley look like the happiest man in the world. Sirius hated when that happened because Harry pulled away from everyone. He pulled away from Sirius.

The only thing he could do was note when Harry was in a mood – when it seemed like there was an entire world up in the boy's head, carefully maintained and controlled by Harry himself – and avoid him. He supposed it may just be the put-upon arrogance of the young, but these excuses that Sirius made for Harry never seemed up to par.

His higgledy dispositions spoke of more than young fickleness, however, more than the in-and-outs of little boys, and the stark difference Sirius saw sometimes in Harry compared to, say, Ron, made Sirius come to rather startling conclusion. James's son was not in the least bit normal, and he probably never had been. Harry was not James's son, not in personality or in strengths; if anything, he was more like Lily, but not predominantly so, even then. The boy was quite understandably nobody but his strange self, and even "strange" was the wrong word for him entirely.

Every adjective Sirius could think of for Harry was not one to be used in regards to a teenage boy, and these instances of knowingness where they shouldn't be brought the word _strange _to mind.

But Sirius loved him, and he rather thought it was impossible not to. He had a blunt, biting sense of humor and a confidence that spoke of security in himself and an unreserved loyalty to others. No doubt, these were all already wonderful traits to see in a budding adult, but quite troublesome for the parent to deal with, as Sirius could attest to.

He wondered how Denny Brooks did it, for, in the days that Sirius had tried – without success – to treat Harry like a surrogate son, he'd received a coldness in return that told him he was not needed, and the worst situation for a parent to be in was to not be needed. It came eventually to every guardian, but not usually at seventeen, and Sirius strongly suspected that Harry had been self-sufficient long before that age. That Harry had been one hell of a kid.

It made him sorry and sad to not have been there to see him grow up. So that he perhaps could have prevented it, and he was angry, furious, that Harry was this person – as brilliant as he was. It took Azkaban for Sirius to grow up, and yet, at times, he still felt the mind-set of his young adulthood take hold. The love for Harry he had felt when the boy was born remained, however, and at least he could depend on that.

Perhaps something of his love was false. Sirius could admit, in times of decent clarity, that he loved Harry for what he represented. A family he had had once. A family he had lost. But Harry wasn't one to be put into a category. Harry didn't fit any round holes or square pegs. Harry was everyone and no one to him, and Sirius wasn't sure how to approach the boy he thought he loved.

But it was the _strangeness _that bothered him most of all.

And really, the question was what had made Harry far more superior in maturity than even Sirius was himself? What had made Harry _grow_ _up_?

Supposing it had to do with Dursleys, or his time on the streets of London, it would mean that Harry's circumstances had been far too detrimental to enable the boy to keep his childish incorruptibility safe. But, then again, that was simplifying Harry rather insultingly. Sirius did not claim to be well-versed in the human psyche, and would not act the part simply to know more about his godson. He would want to be told, as he watched and observed, and perhaps a trust between them could form and Sirius would fulfill his vow to protect the son of his best friends. In a way, his unavailability may spark the thought of necessity in Harry's head. He would be needed.

Sirius only wished Harry would at least try and make it easier for him. Running hot and cold not so sporadically confused Sirius and made him desperate for a median that he could work with.

Luckily, Sirius acknowledged as he watched the ruckus, Harry had begun to lighten up in the last few days, and the dark circles underneath his eyes looked to be receding. That is, until the owl tapped on the window, and Ron read his letter with a look on his face that was immensely startling, given the wide grin he'd had before.

.o00o.

"She won't," Ron said tiredly, exhausted, no doubt, from explaining everything to his family over and over. "She's with her Aunt now, mum, and she says she doesn't know when she'll come back to school." He paused to sigh, his freckles dark on his pale face. "She doesn't know if she wants to ever come back. To the Wizarding World, that is."

"Oh, that poor dear," Mrs. Weasley repeated, her hands buried in her apron, twisting it with sorrowful anxiety. "Damn this!" she suddenly blurted, quite heatedly. They stared.

"Molly…."

"They should have been safe at the camps. That poor dear had to let them go, and what for, Arthur? So that she could send them to their deaths?"

"We don't know that they're dead," Sirius pointed out, more for Ron's benefit than anything.

Fred and George, who were being uncharacteristically somber, shifted in their seats. George said, "They have to be, though." He looked at his brother briefly and continued on alone. "You said yourself that there weren't any survivors," he reminded Sirius.

"It was a large camp," Ginny tried, her eyes wet with despair for her friend. "Hermione knows that, and she'll be looking for her parents anyway."

"It's been a week," Arthur said, not cushioning his words in the slightest. "A week, Gin."

It was Harry, rather than Molly, who gave Arthur the shaken, very severe glare. She was too distraught to really be paying attention to her husband. Her husband who wasn't acting right. Arthur met Harry's eyes and held them. Harry licked his lips, his chin rising, before he looked away.

"She blames Wizards!" Ron nearly yelled, red with anger. "She must, because she won't go back to school!"

"She didn't even say that, Ron," Ginny snapped at him, her fists clenched. "She just wants to try and find them! You _know_ Hermione; she's not prejudiced…and she doesn't _hate_ people. Not since—" Ginny cut herself off, apparently unable to say more on why exactly Hermione Granger was incapable of hatred on her parents' behalf.

Ron knew what hadn't been said and he scowled. "Hermione should be allowed to hate them. I would," he argued fiercely. "If anyone attacked my family, I would want them dead. I would blame the Muggles if it were them doing it."

"This is not the time for blame, Ron," Molly told him sharply, finally intervening. "It's not the time to hate. We didn't raise you to hate. We don't yet know if Hermione's parents are dead, and instead of all this bad talk, you _should_ be supporting your friend!" Her voice had gotten higher and higher until she was shrill and very upset.

"Hermione shouldn't go to France to find them, either," Arthur said, placing a calming hand on his wife's arm. "It's too dangerous. The channel is being watched."

Ron went redder (if at all possible) and stood up with his hands on the table. "What? Why?" he demanded.

"The Ministry," Arthur explained, and watched as Molly moved to the stove to quickly put on the kettle. It was a nervous habit Arthur knew well, "thinks that spies for the Muggles, specifically Muggleborns, are going to France, fearing persecution."

"But there've only been a few people fired, no one's been persecuted," Ginny interjected, slightly cross, quite frightened.

"And how long do you think that will last?" Sirius asked Ginny, who blushed. "The Ministry set up the refugee camp for Wizards and Witches, neutrals, homeless Muggles, and quite a lot of parents of Muggleborn students. Like Hermione's."

"It was kind of Scrimgeour, everyone thought," Arthur went on, taking a cup of tea from Molly with grateful smile. "But I've a feeling he was anticipating the attack. Now that he's been proven right, he's been telling the public it was Muggleborn spies that sold Fontainebleau out, to incept a war within a war. Hermione knows this. And Ron, even if her parents weren't missing, she probably wouldn't have returned to Hogwarts anyway."

Ginny fidgeted, eyeing Ron, who was still standing and breathing rather heavily. "Was it?" she asked quietly. "Muggleborn spies, I mean."

"Who else would know the location? It was kept quite a secret, not under Fidelius, as it should have been, but France housed the refugees with all of their best magical protections and Ministry officials. Someone had to have been on the inside," Sirius told her, cradling his own tea and sitting back. "I'm not saying they were Muggleborn, it could have been anyone, but, well, it looks bad. Real bad."

"So what does Hermione mean by finding them?" Ron questioned waspishly. "If she can't cross the channel and get them, she should come back to Hogwarts!"

"Supporters of the last war, Ron," Arthur said, as gently as possible. Molly glared at her son. "They would make life very hard for Hermione at Hogwarts. You can expect many Muggleborns not to return."

Ron finally sat, heavily and furiously, and stared at the table unseeing. Ginny still looked as though she was going to cry, and Fred and George were very still and very silent.

"What if it's attacked?" Ginny asked, hesitant to request more information. "Hogwarts. What if it's attacked?"

Arthur shared a short look with Molly. "Your mother and I had a worry that it would be," he confessed.

"It could happen," Sirius said, sad to see the children so shocked. "It would be an excellent strategy for the other side to dispose of Hogwarts, and every other magical school. We should fear it, considering all of our magical fortifications had failed thus far."

"But—" Ron was cut off, his eyes widening at Harry, who had stood.

"Schools," Harry said tightly, rather dangerously. "You think they would attack schools."

"They're magic schools, Harry," Sirius argued, though softly, because Harry had said very little all night. He was quite glad the boy was taking an invested interest now, however late. "If the Muggle side is smart, they'd go after the next generation of Wizards and Witches, and they've already shown they're cold enough to do it. Their campaign is obviously genocide, to eradicate all of us. They'll go after the schools, wait and see."

Molly made a sound in the back of her throat, a choke that could have been a sob or, perhaps, a laugh. "Heaven forbid these blood-thirsty people leave the children out of it!"

Harry sat back down, his face impassive. "And you would send Ron and Ginny anyway," he clarified.

"We thought about it," Arthur said seriously, not looking at anyone at all. "And we've spoken to Minerva. She's set up evacuation Floos all over the castle, from Hogwarts only, and she's fully prepared to defend the school. She's had the best Warders in Europe secure the boundaries of Hogwarts, and Molly and I…" He turned and addressed his children, clearing his throat. "Your mother and I, we trust Minerva."

"Hermione should be able to come, then!" Ron countered, his fear of being separated from Hermione quite obvious. It pained them all to see it.

"Don't be as stupid as you look!" Ginny fought back, equally upset and wanting to go after Ron. "They just got done explaining to us that it's inside Hogwarts that's unsafe."

"Please, Gin," Arthur stepped in, his teacup half way to his mouth and a tired expression on his face. "She's right, Ron."

"_I _could protect her!" Ron refused to let it go. "She should know that I'd keep her safe. That I'd be there for her—" he choked out.

"She just lost her parents!" Ginny shouted. The room was suddenly chaotic, lively, whereas a stoic silence had dominated them all before. "I doubt she's relying much on _your_ protection right now!"

"That's enough!" Molly commanded before the fight could get nasty. "I want all of you in bed, right now! This discussion is over."

With no objections from the rest of the adults, Ron and Ginny pushed away from the table, viciously resigned to ignore each other for the moment. Harry did the same, but slower, carefully watching Mr. Weasley's demeanor.

"Good night, Harry," Molly said firmly before she turned to Fred and George. "Can I hope you two will follow suit as well?"

"Nah—"

"We're adults now, you know—"

"And we think 'all of you' is a kiddy category. We're not kids."

Molly sighed. "Yes, I suppose you're not. Members of the Order, even, no matter a mother's objections," she muttered resentfully.

"I value your objections, Mollywobbles," Arthur consoled, patting her on the hand. She smiled at him fondly and kissed him on the cheek.

"Time for bed, eh, Forge?"

"I'd say so, Gred."

"Goodnight Mollywobbles—"

"Mum, we mean mum."

Harry left the kitchen with the twins, hearing the Weasleys' and Sirius's quiet murmuring as he moved, like a tired old man, up the stairs.

.o00o.

"Avez-vous une morgue?"

His eyes followed the man's jutting thumb down the hall. "Salle vingt et un. Plancher deux."

"Merci."

Harry turned on his heel and made for the stairway, wondering briefly at the location of the morgues in French hospitals. Most of them, in England and the Americas, were located underground, in other places besides a hospital, but this district of France either seemed to not have funding or the space for another building. The hospital itself was busy, having not omitted triage just yet, and was still rounding up the dead and placing them where they could. There were so many deaths, in fact, that the patients before the attacks were on the topmost floors, while the no-longer-living had appropriated the many rooms below them. He came into the morgue, where he knew they kept a list of the identified, and waited for the harassed-looking woman's attention.

Before looking up at him from her seat, she delivered a very sound rejection in rapid French and finally hung up the phone. "Puis-je vous aider?"

Harry sighed. "Parlez-vous anglais? Mon français sucks ass," he said.

"Oui," she confirmed quickly, her accent very thick. "Who are you looking for?"

"Last name is Granger."

She shuffled through the mound of papers on her desk, pulling out one from the middle of the stack, which was teetering rather precariously. Harry reached out to steady it.

"Merci," she said distractedly. "We have two Grangers. Wendell and Monica?"

Harry remembered the letter. Hermione had told Ron that she had sent her parents to the camps, modifying their memories so that they would not remember her, and placing them under alternate last names. He had, at the time, been shocked and a bit amused by the girl's paranoia, but he was beginning to see the strategy her in actions. The persecution of Muggleborns by the Ministry came to mind.

"May I see them?" he asked tightly.

"Come this way."

They did not have space enough to keep the dead in rooms. She lead him out of the doors of the main hall and to what looked to be a cantine. Inside, there were at least a hundred unclaimed bodies lined across the floor. A bit like sardines, Harry thought morbidly. Obviously, they had gotten Wizards to cast a preservation charm, as there was no smell or visible signs of decay. The woman checked the numbers on each body, holding her clipboard and gazing down at the dead with clinical apathy. When she reached a couple bearing the numbers _567_ and _568_, she stopped. Harry clenched his teeth.

She removed the sheets, and Harry saw a woman, one who could be no one but Hermione's mother, first. He looked away. It was apparent that Mrs. Granger had been mutilated before her death, if the bruises shaped like hands were at all telling. Mr. Granger was missing a chunk of bone from his skull, and though the blood had gone and no vibrant colors remained in him at all, Harry felt as though there was still blood everywhere. Across the floor, on the ceiling and on himself. He turned his back on them.

"They were caught in the escape. When the fire started, they'd been blocked in by the crowds. Most of them were shot, they shot into the crowds," the woman was saying, shaking her hair out of her eyes. "We have rooms full of urns. Urns! People come to get their families, but I can only give them ash. It's not even their proches. You are lucky to have _bodies_."

"Stop," he snapped, and she quickly obeyed. "Are you usually so casual with families of the deceased?" he asked scathingly.

"I—" she paled terribly, looking very sorry. "Je suis tellement désolé! It has been a long week. So many dead – dieu ait pitié!"

The woman rose from her crouch, obviously overtired, and said sympathetically, "Are you their son?"

"No," Harry told her. "I am not."

Peering at him closely, she seemed to find it suspicious for only a moment, before her previous shame came back to her and she dipped her head. "Would you tell their proches that they are here? From England, oui? They can come and claim them—"

"I will claim them," he cut her off shortly.

"Oh, but you can't!" she said frantically, shaking her head. "Nous avons des reglements, rules! We can't just let people, etrangers, take bodies from here!"

"And why not?" he asked rather sardonically. "You're pressed for space here, and _surely_ you want victims returned to their families? I will take the Grangers to their daughter."

"Nous avons des reglements!" she repeated.

"Et c'est merveilleux. I'll be taking them, Madame."

When she voiced no further objections, for she neither had the will nor the fight in her, Harry waved a hand at the bodies and they floated up next to him. Her face went lax, her eyes wide, and she suddenly beamed.

"Of course, sir! Sign here. Mes excuses!"

He stared at her, but did the proffered paperwork. _So, France, you've decided neutrality is your public philosophy, but I've just seen this one tell me otherwise. What Wizard is moving you?  
_

"Sympathies for your loss," the woman said, still smiling in a way that said she wanted very much to keep her job. "Bonjour, mon seigneur!"

_My lord, eh? Who could it be? A Wizard has France, but how in the hell did we miss that? It looks like they managed to keep an advantage from us. I wonder who__—  
_

And then it seemed a stupid thing to be thinking about. He looked at the bodies, pushing the sheet over them and tearing off the insulting numbers. Harry made his way out of the hospital, passing more large rooms that he hadn't noticed before, people laid out underneath a sea of white sheets, accompanied by the looming, hair-raising feel of being in the presence of the dead and the dying.

"…_they've already shown they're cold enough to do it."  
_

"_Heaven forbid these blood-thirsty people leave the children out of it!"  
_

There was a room of children on the first floor. They could fit twice as many children in one room than full grown adults. Their little bodies wrapped in white gave them away. Harry moved away from the open door, and the man at the front desk bade him goodbye.

"Une bonne journee," he said back, softly. "Pas même en rêve."

.o00o.

It was nature's way of gibing his priorities, no doubt. Well, Harry thought, perhaps not _nature_ exactly, but some sort of hidden awareness that vaunted its ability to understand the fundamentals of humanity. It was a telling sort of irony that Harry would find himself calm in the face of violence and destruction, but entirely frightened when confronted by a rather common human emotion. More specifically, logic and callousness did not work with his surrogate parents and godfather.

Putting a bullet through an unlucky person's head was a hell of a lot easier than saying goodbye to his sort-of family. Given the decision, Harry would choose the pistol over familial awkwardness any day. Sirius seemed unaccustomed to it as well, and, having had very little time to spend with Harry as a whole, he had therefore made a move toward him that reminded Harry of an attempt to strangle more than just a cue for a simple hug goodbye. Behind them, the Hogwarts Express gleamed scarlet, spouting plumes of steam and noise to hurry them along. This moment, however, could not be hurried, and Harry had never thought that misanthropy would ever look quite as good as it did now.

"Take care, Harry," Sirius was saying around his shoulder, his parental hug a little too tight. "Stay out of trouble."

Harry tried a small smile that felt a bit like stretching cement. "I will. Give my regards to Remus and Tonks," he responded.

Mrs. Weasley came up, then, her face bright with worry and upset. Tears shone in her eyes at the thought of not seeing her children for months, they were quite contrary to her yells – when Ron and Ginny took to acting up – that she would be rid of them soon enough. Harry had no problem embracing her, and he thought that maybe it had to do with her being a woman. That gave her so little credit, though, that Harry pushed his reasoning aside.

"Have a good time, dear," she said, patting his cheek when they pulled back from their embrace. "Study hard. Stay out of trouble."

"You know I would if I could, ma'am."

"So polite," Mrs. Weasley muttered, lingering for half a moment before giving a great courageous sniff and turning away. "On the train, then, you'll be late! Ron, Ginny, stop squabbling. There's time enough for that later!"

He looked for Mr. Weasley and saw him whispering briefly into his wife's ear. He had one hand on his son's shoulder, though Ron seemed to not notice, and Harry pushed his trunk forward to say goodbye to him. Like the second right before the plunge, Harry took a deep breath as he moved towards him, but the scarlet steam engine whistled loudly, and, suddenly, the platform was havoc.

Students kissed their parents goodbye, there were quick embraces here and there; trunks were loaded onto the train before the last call bade them onward. Harry was hustled with Ron and Ginny over to the entrance of the closest cabin, and they turned on the steps, waving madly. Mrs. Weasley wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Be careful! You hear me?"

"Yes, mum," Ron and Ginny intoned, quite off cue, both equally disgruntled with Molly's mothering. Harry hopped up on the tallest step after them, taking only one look back.  
Sirius stood, waving fanatically beside a sniffing Mrs. Weasley, and Arthur Weasley – Harry's first true confidante, something like a father to him – had his back turned as he shuffled away from the train. Harry stared, and the train moved, and he wished he hadn't looked back.

.o00o.

They made their way to a compartment that was unoccupied except for a pudgy boy with a toad. Harry ransacked his mind for a name, for he had seen and spoken to the boy before, but was infinitely glad when the boy stood to shake his hand as if he didn't expect Harry to remember him at all. As grateful as he was, Harry still thought that was rather sad.

"Neville Longbottom," he introduced himself, and there was a nervous sort of energy in his stance and in his voice. "We talked last year, er...you probably don't-"

Harry smiled. "Of course I remember! How are you, mate?" he returned, aware now that Neville had been one of the students fighting in the Department of Mysteries. It seemed so very long ago when that battle had happened.

They sat down after shoving their packs away. Ron asked how Neville's holiday was, and they were soon regaled with stories of his presumably bad-tempered grandmother and the misadventures of Trevor the toad. Harry looked at the amphibian closely when Neville deposited Trevor in his hands in order to search for something in his luggage. It was a lazy sort of creature, bulbous and half-asleep, but Neville's unceremonious casting away had awakened it into a froth, if the slime secreting from its pores was anything to go by. Harry scowled at his now-disgusting hands.

"You'd best wash that off," Neville said, rather upset as he took Trevor back. "Sorry. He gets nervous."

"Where's the loo?" he asked in an irritated huff, and Ron pointed down the corridor with a barely withheld snicker. "Ha, very ha."

"You're such a ponce," Ron said.

Harry slid the compartment door shut and made for the back of the train, noticing without care the many stares he received as he passed by the other sections. One little mite of a child had the balls to flatten his face against the compartment window. Harry paused briefly to stare back at him before continuing on with only a bemused glance back.

"Fucking nutters," he mumbled when he found the bathroom, and he shutting himself inside. He washed his hands furiously before he sat down on the toilet seat and sighed. Struggling briefly with the window, he managed to get it open. He lit a cigarette, feeling himself calm gradually after each swift drag.

"Bloody horrible day," he reminded himself while rubbing a hand across his eyes. The door opened just as he was exhaling, and before he could shout that the bathroom was occupied, they shoved their way in and locked the door behind them. The Invisibility Cloak was torn off.

"Draco!" Harry exclaimed, standing abruptly, ash from his smoke falling onto his trousers. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he asked, wiping away the mess with a livid glare.

"Blaise brought me," Draco confessed, looking nonchalant. "I was careful."

"Do you have any idea how stupid you are?" Harry said softly, dangerously.

Draco smirked and stepped forward. "I've an idea, but I didn't want to stay at the manor. I didn't want to be locked up anymore," he said, just as quietly.

"You'll be locked up in prison if you're caught," Harry growled. "Or did you not realize you're still a wanted criminal? What _the fuck_ are you doing here?"

He sidled closer to Harry, still maintaining that very Draco-like expression of complete apathy until he was nose-to-nose with him. Draco grabbed his wrists and leaned forward, but Harry dodged his advance.

"You won't let that happen, will you?" Draco teased him, trying to pull Harry back towards him.

"No," Harry snapped at him. "This is ridiculous…." he stopped and moved away from Draco again. But there was so little room, and he found himself backed into the wall quite snuggly.

"You're so bloody stupid," he was muttering, though he fell quiet when he was caught and kissed rather soundly. When Draco pulled away, there was a smug smile on his face.

"Be honest," Harry said a bit breathlessly. "Did you risk going to Azkaban so you could fuck me in a bathroom on a train?"

Draco grinned at him and leaned back. "Don't be crass. You have plenty of men who can handle distribution, and I was getting bored," he said.

Harry moved away and crossed his arms, smoking his forgotten cigarette quickly. "You expect to wander around Hogwarts undetected, do you?"

"If Dumbledore were still alive, no," Draco admitted, waving a hand. "McGonagall? That old cat won't notice a thing, and once you're sorted into Slytherin, I'll be in your rooms most of the time."

"God, you're presumptuous," Harry told him, but he couldn't resist reaching out to touch him, though only to deliver a little slap to the cheek for his cockiness. Draco, glad to have him near, grabbed onto his subdued hand and kissed him again.

They were never for much kissing, usually, but as Harry wrapped his arms around those seductively broad shoulders, he thought it quite funny they would indulge in the youthful pastime in a train full of students. Perhaps _this_ was what going to school was really about, and Harry breathed a laugh into Draco's mouth.

"I hope you know," Harry said softly, still attached to Draco, who was now running his nose down Harry's neck, "that the utmost secrecy must be used, not only for your own safety, but, considering my delicate situation in certain affairs, because—"

"Potter, I know," Draco cut him off, looking at him steadily. "Now throw that thing out, you're getting smoke in my hair."

Harry pushed away with a small laugh, took one more drag, and threw the cigarette out of the window. Draco waited patiently, too tall for his own good and much too handsome standing there. He moved towards Harry once more. Harry stopped the approach, however, grasping Draco's arm tightly.

"You'll be careful?" he demanded.

Draco's expression did not change. "I'm good at saving my own skin. You know that. Don't worry," he said.

Harry frowned.

"And speaking of skin," Draco leered. "I seem to remember somebody mentioning public fornication?"

Smiling slyly, Harry drew away from him again. "You sound like Snape. And no, I don't think so." He shook a finger. "I'm not that much of a slag that I'll have it in a lavatory."

"Now that's just lying," Draco said, smirking. "Go on, then," he relented, pushing Harry toward the door.

He stopped before he left, though, his brow knitted in suspicion. "You're going to cause a hell of a lot of trouble with that cloak, aren't you?"

"Where are the Weasels?" Draco's voice carried just the right bit of seriousness and mischief that it made Harry want to forget his prudish rejection. "And we'll find out."

.o00o.

The moment Harry got off of the train he was confronted by a harried looking Minerva McGonagall. Her hair was in such a tight bun at the back of her skull that the lines on her face were pulled up significantly, taking years off of her age. Harry only thought it was too bad her expression told of frustrated, piqued vexation, since it directly contrasted with her hair's efforts and made her look every inch her age. His inspection of her appearance caused McGonagall to scowl at him sternly, and he smiled.

"Come with me then, Potter," she said impatiently, holding out a quill that Harry immediately felt was a Portkey. "To be sorted," she explained, after seeing his blank stare.

"I thought I was going to be sorted with the first years?" Harry asked, taking the quill amiably now that he knew where and why they were separating from the other students.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped before the Portkey activated. They arrived into the office of the Headmistress, and McGonagall moved off to retrieve the Hat. "Special care must be taken for special circumstances."

She sounded as disbelieving of the explanation as Harry was. She sighed. "The press is in the Great Hall, and the staff is busy herding them out. If you were to enter now, there would be a hootenanny."

Only Minerva McGonagall, Harry thought, could say hootenanny and still be respected, even feared. "Yes, Professor," Harry agreed, a bit askance that the press would go so far as to invade Hogwarts.

She shoved the Sorting Hat onto his head without preamble, and he scowled briefly before he felt a prodding at the edge of his wards. Snape had once tried to break through, claiming it was Occlumency Harry practiced, but he had little patience for terms and so still recognized them as Mind Wards. At the Hat's insistence, he dropped them a bit.

_That took you long enough_, the Sorting Hat scoffed. _More please.  
_

_I think not.  
_

_And what have you to hide, Mr. Potter? _the Hat nearly bellowed in his mind. _Of all things…I shan't mention any secrets you have to anyone but myself, and, on behalf of myself, I must say_ _I'm a splendid conversationalist. Why would I reveal anything? You have nothing to fear. Open up!  
_

_Do I have your word on that? _Harry asked, not at all that concerned, despite his instinctive paranoia.

_I'm a hat, boy,_ the hat said, sighing with annoyance at about the same time McGonagall let one of her own out. _I have very little standing in the world besides Sorting difficult children and keeping the sun out of your eyes.  
_

Harry opened his mind, curious as to what the Sorting Hat would say upon having full disclosure, and there was a silence that lasted more than a few minutes. Finally, the Sorting Hat said, not in his mind but out loud, "I refuse to sort this student."

"But—" McGonagall gasped before she could compose herself. "You must, really, Hat. Do you have a reason for not doing so?"

"I have the right to refuse to Sort anybody!" it said so angrily that Harry made to take it off of his head. "Hold fast, boy, I'm listened to when I'm atop someone's head!" The hat addressed McGonagall again. "I've the right, and the reasons are my own. No house."

It ceased to be animated then, and McGonagall took it off of Harry's head with a bemused glare. "I do hope the Hat will work for the others. Oh, what a disaster. You'll have to be given the guest rooms again, I imagine," she grumbled.

"I'm partial to them, actually," Harry told her, and her stare immediately turned suspicious. He laughed. "I haven't bribed the Hat with retirement, if that's what you're thinking."

She seemed amused at that until she noticed the time and hustled him out. When Harry made it to the Great Hall, the press had been successfully kicked out, and everyone was gathered at their tables with hungry anticipation. The stares he got when he entered and made his way to Ron and Ginny were much like the ones on the train, bar the puerile face-to-window smooshing. When he sat next to his friends, fierce whispers broke out across the hall. Ron clouted him on the back.

"Gryffindor, eh?" he exclaimed happily. "I knew it!"

Before Harry could correct him, the first years came in, led by Professor Sprout, and McGonagall emerged from a side door on the dais and sat herself down. Despite McGonagall's worry that the Hat was threatening mutiny, it sorted every student without anymore unorthodox episodes.

"I'm starved," Ron whispered loudly, his eyes blaming the little first years for the delay.

But Harry wasn't listening; on his mind only the thought that, where his Sorting had been eventful, no such similar incidents were caused by any of the first year's minds. He wondered what the Hat had seen there, in that particularly uncharted land, that had made it so adverse to Sort Harry into any house Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry could provide.


	7. Chapter Six

A/n: Yeah, I'm sorry. Time doesn't like me. Forgiveness? Screw all that, and screw being politically correct. Merry Christmas! Here's my gift to you all, though it's not a crazy amazing chapter that's super long and full of smut. Sorry about that, haha. Have a great Christmas everybody who celebrates it! Shots for everyone!

Ana: Ah, things piling up, yeah? I know what you mean. You can have my brain if you want it, haha, though I have to warn you...it's really not the best centerpiece for parties and weddings. Oh wait, did you want it for another reason? To do a switcheroo? Hey, is that even possible? And if that answer is common knowledge you don't want my brain at all. I give you holiday cheer and extra yuletide gay. Love you, darling!

Supreme Dark Lady Mongoose: Can you believe I no longer have to paste your pen-name onto the document anymore? I can actually type it out. Supreme Dark Lady Mongoose. Supreme Dark Lady Mongoose. SupremeDarkLadyMongoose. You said:

_But it's so sad at the same time to have all those dead people and children  
and I love it!_

Marry me.

Dedication: To Uncle Adrian-you'll be missed :(

Warnings for this chapter: language, sexual innuendos, violence, immorality.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Six

Classes at Hogwarts did not start until eight o'clock exactly, and breakfast, an hour before, ended precisely fifteen minutes prior to the beginning of class. It shouldn't have been a complicated procedure, rising at seven, dressing, washing, and leaving just enough time to head down to the Great Hall to inhale eggs on toast before sprinting about to start a fruitful day of learning.

If a student had a class that took just a bit longer to get to, then they would be wise to wake up a smidgeon earlier, adjusting their daily habits and rituals according to what time they needed to be academically ready. Fortunately, Harry had never slept in, not in his entire life, and unfortunately, Ron was a fierce believer in sleeping until it was absolutely necessary to rise. Like, say, someone dying would be a good reason for him to awaken.

The Gryffindors in Ron's dorm had recruited Harry to "Ron Wake-Up Duty," which was considered something of an honor, according to Neville, who had claimed that he was now retired. This meant that Harry would have to get up even earlier to finish with his own regimen, and then he had to traipse up to Gryffindor tower to make sure Ron was ready in time for breakfast.

Harry certainly didn't mind, he would have to meet up with Ron every morning in the tower anyway, since Ron had asked Harry to meet and have breakfast with him in the mornings, regardless of their schedules. Besides, the early hours he kept allowed him to visit the headmistress. He was there now, in front of the Gargoyle and contemplating déjà vu as he listed possible passwords.

"Yarn," he yawned. "Mice. Catnip. Effin' meow!"

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall called from behind him, and he swiveled around to stare at her. "The password is Felix."

He grinned. "That was my next guess."

She gave him a stern glare that lacked any real severity and lead the way up the staircase. "I trust you're here to discuss the Sorting last night. Or lack thereof, apparently," she said as she opened the door for him.

Harry made himself comfortable in a chair and yawned again.

The Headmistress sat as well, a stack of papers teetering precariously as she sighed. "I recall telling you that you were apt enough for Trasfiguration past the seventh year curriculum, but I suppose you'd rather attend class with Mr. Weasley," she concluded.

"Right you are, ma'am."

"Yes, well." She cleared her throat and waved her wand at the stack of papers. One slipped out as the tower threatened to topple again. "Here is your schedule. I've notified the Ministry of your tutelage this summer, and we should have you capable of passing your O.W.L.s by December. Do you believe you will have the aptitude to take the N.E.W.T.s with your fellow classmates in May?"

Harry nodded and took the schedule from her with his thanks. "I'll certainly try my best," he said politely.

She gazed at him over her the top of her glasses. "I _would_, however, like to discuss your conversation with the Hat, if you please."

He frowned. "Isn't that between the Hat and me? Hypothetically. Not to be rude, either…" he trailed off.

"Not to be rude!" a portrait of a rather crotchety old man scoffed. "He tries very hard _not to be rude_, doesn't he?"

McGonagall ignored him. "There has never been a student in the history of this school that has failed to be Sorted. Hypothetically, it is most certainly _not_ between you and the Sorting Hat," she deadpanned.

Harry thought that whether or not it was a matter of privacy was irrelevant to McGonagall compared to the history he had made last night with his botched Sorting.

"The Hat didn't say anything to me besides asking if I would lower my shields. And then he refused to Sort me. I know as much as you do." He shrugged.

McGonagall looked as if she sincerely doubted that. "The Hat refuses to tell me anything about the matter," she complained.

"Rebellious headwear." Harry smiled. "Who would have thought?"

The Headmistress looked as though she was ready to rage further, and she wasn't amused by him in the slightest, but Harry was saved by the flare of the fireplace.

"Ah, our Transfiguration professor has decided to grace us with his presence," she continued with the same tone of vexation.

Harry had thought, rather stupidly, that McGonagall would resume teaching as well as performing the duties of Headmistress. He had but a moment to admonish himself for not thinking clearly before a man stepped through the fire and grasped McGonagall's hand companionably.

"Ah, Minerva, beg your pardon for my tardiness, the cats were a bit peeved to be moving, but I promised them free range of the mice in the castle, and Maggie's such a good mouser, a good mouser indeed," he stopped. "Oh, you've company, excuse me, excuse me," he said, turning to look at Harry. He stuttered.

Harry was rather shocked as well.

"_Henry_?" he said, completely taken aback.

"Bert," he greeted, groaning mentally.

McGonagall's lip formed a single straight line. Then, in a strained soft of voice, she said, "You know each other?"

"Henry here was my student! A scholar of mine!" Adalbert said in that high-pitched, overenthusiastic voice of his. "I did tutoring, you know, Minerva, privately, for a few years. A friend of mine, Colonel Schubert, suggested I work for the privileged Wizarding houses to earn a few bob on the side, despite my retirement. I'd carped that I was aloof without the stimulation of Academia, you see. So Colonel Schubert took me in hand, and, yes, well—" he paused at seeing both Harry and Minerva glaring. "Henry here was a one of those students! By now you must have realized he's an excellent pupil; a veritable protégé, indeed!"

"Yes," McGonagall sighed, still frowning. "He is well past our prospectus in some areas of magic. I trust that is your work, Adalbert."

"Oh, yes, of course," he said with pride, turning to Harry. "How have you been, Henry? Made it to Hogwarts, I see! You'll have to call me Professor Waffling now, I'm afraid. Formalities, you know. Why, I was always quite fond of formalities—"

"I'm well, sir," Harry cut him off, smiling. He caught the grateful look McGonagall gave him and smirked. "The new Transfiguration professor, are you? I'll have to warn my fellow classmates about your backbreaking homework and crackpot beliefs in the Grand Web of Energies."

"Ho! Still got that sense of humor, I see!" Bert chortled happily. "I'll see you in class, Brooks! I'll expect to show you off, you know."

"Aye," he acknowledged at exactly the same moment that McGonagall said, "It's Potter now, Adalbert."

Her displeased frown, most likely because of Bert not being in-the-know about his student, made her rather intimidating.

Adalbert choked. "Potter?" he cried.

Harry left McGonagall to explain, which he would no doubt pay for later, and made his way to the tower to wake up Ron. It was a quarrel to get him out of bed, but after throwing his blankets onto the floor (with Ron wrapped in them), there had only been a brief tussle before his best friend was amiable enough to be ready for food.

When they reached the Great Hall, it was alive with laughter and squabbling, the noise almost earsplitting compared to the few quiet hours that Harry had had to himself before breakfast.

Waffling had yet to take his place at the Professors' table, a fact that Harry was both glad and anxious about. The man would no doubt feel ridiculously betrayed by Harry's false identity, and he would probably be shocked that the boy he had taught Magical Theory to was the one-and-only hero of the Wizarding World.

But Harry wasn't all that bothered with Adalbert thinking him traitorous in that regard, no. Harry was worried that Waffling wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut. The conversation they had so long ago was fresh in Harry's memory, and if Adalbert remembered that incriminating tête-à-tête they had indulged in, then Harry was in a spot of trouble. He gazed at the empty chair on the raised dais and recalled the conversation with fretful worry.

"_What about guns? You mentioned transferring magic to Muggle artifacts was rather easy. Could you modify a pistol with magic?"  
_

A rather telling question indeed, and Harry was nervous to see Adalbert, to see if he had either puffed up with anger and pride because he had taught the boy-who-lived without knowing, or if he was fearful and alarmed because he recalled what Harry had asked. That would mean he knew, without a reasonable doubt, that his student was the inventor of the weapons now killing Wizards and Witches by the thousands. Harry hoped, for Bert, that he didn't remember.

.o00o.

"Take out your books and pay attention," Snape snarled impatiently even though no one had hesitated to obey. Harry cut a quick glance at Blaise, who had done very well to avoid looking as though he were familiar with Harry all morning. He knew, however, when Blaise raised one eyebrow in response, that he would be in the Room of Requirement after dinner, likely with a sulking Draco in tow. He imagined the blond was still peeved that Harry had forbidden him entry into his rooms last night, not at all feigning a desperate need for sleep.

"I trust potions are more interesting, Mr. Potter," Snape interrupted his brief unvoiced conversation with Blaise, "then whatever has you so enraptured with the window. That goes for the rest of you as well. Though we may be blessed with the savior of the Wizarding World in our Potions class, I would suggest focusing more on your studies than famous students. Although some of you may need more help than I can provide."

He glared at Harry furiously, and Harry gave him a slightly seductive smile back. They were working on a Strengthening Potion, modified to increase stamina, and Harry had very little trouble with it, given he had been versed on the process a month prior to the start of school. He recognized Snape's easy assignment for what it was: an allowance for Harry to spend his time (after the Potion was completed) to review the first day of class.

It looked as though he, despite his lackluster education, had an advantage over his classmates. The lesson was completing the Potion by guessing the correct modification, and, so far, no one had done so besides Harry. He looked over at Ron, whose face was red from frustration, and nudged the Mugwart towards him.

_Chop, skim the film off, and put in one by one after the Verbena_, he wrote onto his notebook. Ron sent him a thankful smile. Harry winked.

"_Potter_!"

He found it inordinately funny that he was the first student to get detention this school year. Sirius would be so proud.

.o00o.

Blaise was already in the room, having left dinner early with not a glance towards Harry, who hadn't been watching anyway. The boy had learned well from his folly last June. He had a decanter of scotch ready, and the room already summoned had a likeness to the Slytherin common. Per usual. Draco was standing over the fireplace, one hand on the mantel, and the other shoved into his pocket. Harry stared at him for a moment, at his back, which was still stubbornly turned, and then sat himself down with a very slight, very small smile. He went for the scotch.

"You're a godsend, Blaise," he told the Slytherin, raising a glass in his direction.

Blaise shook his head. "First day of classes trying, Potter?" he teased.

"Got myself a detention," Harry said, watching Draco as he finally turned around and took a seat. "And is it common knowledge that Divination is a waste of school funds?"

Laughing, Blaise sat back in his seat and grinned. "Why on earth did you sign up for _that_?"

"McGonagall was in charge of my schedule, and I do believe it was her way of payback for a rather harmless joke," Harry concluded with a shrug, though he edited his words mentally. Bert wasn't at all harmless when he was raring for an explanation. "Did you have Transfiguration today?" he asked, while on that train of thought.

"I did," Blaise nodded. "The new Professor is rather good. A bit of a chatterbox, but certainly knowledgeable."

"Did he seem nervous to you?" Harry questioned with interest. "Preoccupied, perhaps?"

"No," Blaise denied, suspicion darkening his eyes. "He was very professional."

Harry hummed absently and turned to look at Draco, who had a rather smug look on his face. "What's got you chuffed?" he asked, amused and curious.

Before Draco could answer, Blaise scoffed and said, "He tripped Weasley down the stairs on our way up here. You never should have given him that cloak."

"I wanted to tell him!" Draco snapped childishly, and Harry couldn't help but grin, no matter how disapproving he was. "He wasn't injured, Potter, before you decide to yell at me," he defended himself.

Harry scowled half-heartedly. "You had better hope he wasn't. If you go after him again your dick can just get reacquainted with your right hand."

Blaise snorted, though Draco seemed aghast at the prospect. "In other news," Blaise began. "I'm teaching your boy here how to become an Animagus."

"Are you, really?" Harry asked, interested now. "Have you found your form, yet?" he asked Draco.

"He has," Blaise answered, and Draco glared. Harry took a sip of his scotch to hide his chuckles.

"It changed, though. Originally, it was a ferret."

"It was not!" Draco objected loudly.

Harry nearly spewed his drink everywhere, laughing. "Oh, fuck, really? Ron told me about that!"

"You see that, Draco?" Blaise sneered, very pleased with himself. "He told you that Weasley told him in order to get out of having sex with you for an undecided amount of time."

"Shut it," Draco barked, turning his fierce eyes on Harry, who snorted again.

Harry waved a hand at him. "Aw, Draco, you know I really _don't _want to get out of a shag with you. That thing you do with your tongue—"

"I'm sorry," Blaise cut him off. "Draco's form is actually a Water Drake."

"Shall I call him Nessie from now on?" Harry teased.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Nessie it is."

"Oh, fuck me."

"Later."

"I'm sorry," Blaise repeated, louder this time. "He's got to work on changing, being one with his form, before we even try to force the transformation."

Draco crossed his legs. "And I keep telling Blaise that being 'one with my form' would constitute thinking like a Water Drake, and I haven't the foggiest how to start," he complained.

Harry lit a cigarette and finished the last of his drink. "Well," he started, slapping the empty glass down. "I'd say go find a Water Drake to talk to, but you don't speak Water Drake, and, wait a moment…aren't they near-to extinct?"

"Of course they are," Blaise retorted. "Of course Draco's form would be a nearly extinct, prehistoric, mythical monstrosity prone to sinking ships and eating seamen."

Both Draco and Harry leaned forward and made to speak, but Blaise whipped a hand out to fend them off.

"Don't you dare say anything," Blaise chided them. "Grow up."

Harry flashed him a toothy grin. "So he's shit out of luck for being one with his form. Perhaps Bo could help," he said, more to himself.

"Who's Bo?" Blaise asked. At exactly the same time, Draco said, "I'm taking offense to the mythical monstrosity bit."

Harry took a drag and blew out a cloud of smoke in Draco's direction. "Bo's my drake, though he's almost fully grown now. He's lovely, Draco, you'd like him, and yes, you would be able to converse with him in your form, but since that's inaccessible at this time, I can act as an interpreter."

Blaise blinked. "You're a Dragon Speaker? There hasn't been one in—"

"Centuries," Harry finished for him, pouring another hearty drink. "I'm aware."

Draco and Blaise seemed unable to find anything to say to that, so Draco settled for asking, "What's your form?"

Harry frowned. "What makes you think I have one?"

"You're you," Draco huffed. "You probably accomplished the Animagus transformation at a miraculously early age just to spite me."

"Your form _should_ have been a peacock to match all of that unnecessary vanity," Blaise quipped.

Draco glared at him. "Well, what is it? A bunny rabbit?"

"I don't have one," Harry confessed, raising a shoulder. "I was tested for the ability, and I don't have it."

Blaise and Draco gaped at him. "Really?" Blaise said, "I would have thought you had mastered your form, what with all of that power behind you. I've heard that even Longbottom has the ability."

Draco smiled at Harry, a slow stretch of his lips that was all arrogance. Harry saw that he was about to say something he would likely regret, and cut him off. "Your right hand, Draco, for an undecided amount of time," he reminded dangerously.

"To business, Potter?" Blaise interrupted them. "I acknowledge your unusual foreplay and ask that we get on with the formalities."

Harry shook a finger at him. "One would think you've got somewhere to be, Blaise," he said before he sobered. "Quite right. How goes things with your Uncle?"

"Distribution has died down, but the warding is still intact, and the location is still classified. You've my _Uncle_ to thank for that, if you ever decide to."

"But I'm so indecisive," Harry mocked, and then raised an eyebrow when Blaise didn't look amused. "Don't expedite the conclusion of bad blood because I get _nasty _when I'm rushed. I trust he's able to take care of the replacement orders?"

Blaise rolled his eyes. "He's capable, Potter; don't mock me—" he broke off, then, looking pensive rather than upset. "We had a bit of a problem two nights ago. A man came in to the factory demanding twelve cases of the VON model. He said he had a written order from you but refused to hand over this fabled letter. After some persuasion, he claimed to work for a person named Arif Rahul."

"Really?" Harry said, sitting up. "Did your Uncle get rid of him?"

"He did," Blaise said with pride. "Will this be a problem, though?"

Harry raised his glass. "Nothing I can't handle. Surprising? Yes, a bit. A cause for suspicion? Undoubtedly. I'll have to write a few angry letters now, won't I?"

"And you'll have to talk to Professor Waffling," Draco said, looking slightly offended when Harry gave him a look of amazement. "You're obviously familiar with the man," Draco guessed, smiling. "Will he be a problem, Potter?"

He took up another cigarette and grinned around the smoke pooling out of his mouth. "No, if I know Bert, I know he'll keep his gob shut if it has to do with preserving his own life. He's a survivalist, mostly. And he's got _morals_," Harry emphasized somewhat scornfully.

"I certainly hope so," Blaise said, rising to his feet.

"Leave Bert to me, Blaise," Harry nodded, dismissing him as he looked at Draco intensely from over the rim of his glass.

Draco slinked closer. "Speaking of waffling, we're doing too much of it," he said, not at all slyly.

Harry put his drink down and grinned. "Want me to help you find your form?" he answered coyly.

"My right hand has better lines, Potter."

Blaise walked out quickly, valiantly trying to pretend he hadn't heard anything.

.o00o.

Speaking of Adalbert Waffling, and, well, waffling in general, having just finished his last class of the day, Bert was more tuckered out than he thought he would be. With so many scholars to guide, it was no wonder he was ready for a brandy and a good night's rest. His students had seemed quite tired by the time the clock had chimed the end of class, and he was somewhat remorseful at living up to his surname so splendidly, but not _really_. Waffling was good at waffling, and to hell with those who thought that was a dead joke.

His family had taken pride, previously, in not blathering through anything at all. But Bert was different; Bert had been a Slytherin in a family of Ravenclaws, and what better way to hide the fact that he was sharp and underhanded then by being a very talented (if he did say so himself) flimflammer? There were few people in Bert's life that saw through his façade. One was his mother, who had to have been the most intelligent Ravenclaw ever (quite a feat, indeed), and who encouraged her Slytherin son to be himself when no one else would. The other was a little tyrant of a boy named Henry Brooks.

Henry Brooks, who, Bert had just been informed, was actually _Harry Potter_.

And dash it all, Bert couldn't be efficiently deceitful with Henry, he was too smart by far, and not in the pompous way of a Ravenclaw or even the soft, cruel way of a Slytherin. Bert had walked away from Henry's tutelage aware that the boy would likely excel at anything and that, with his own particular waffling, he had either made a wonderful move or a grave mistake in teaching the lad everything he knew. The trouble was that Bert was still unsure whether he had made the right choice.

It was common knowledge that Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord with nary a bat of an eyelash, that he had outsmarted the Dark Lord, and that he was the epitome of modesty, preferring to be a simple liaison to the Muggle world rather than, say, the next Minister for Magic. Bert had held the boy in high regard, had indeed bragged that he was the next Albus Dumbledore. Albus, who had been supremely talented and capable of very great things.

But Bert knew Henry Brooks, and though the lad was quite like Dumbledore, he was different in many massive ways. Bert had been privy to the tender ages of the lad. The age when childishness receded at a fairly fast pace into the torrid teenage years, where, for most, the curiosity and ambition halted, and the true waffling began. Henry Brooks had never once waffled in all the time that Bert knew him, and, rather than acting like the child he was, Bert had been frightened of the adult mind Henry possessed. That motivated, tyrant of a mind. He knew that Henry was Harry Potter, now, but he also knew that they were two different people entirely.

Harry Potter was a hero, a modest orphan, and an intelligent young man with a heart of gold.

Henry Brooks was the iniquitous son of a murderer, a snake in the grass with dark intentions and unparalleled willpower.

Two different people entirely, and Bert wondered who he would see when the boy visited him, because he would. Because Bert was a Slytherin, and he remembered everything they had ever said to each other.

Including the question the child had asked, and the answer Waffling had given him.

He also knew only one Wizard capable of creating weapons to destroy the Magical world. There was only one so brilliant, only one so determined, and Bert considered his position as the new Transfiguration professor, and whether or not he was willing to give it up and run.

A knock came at his classroom door not an hour after the last class of his second day of teaching had ended. Bert knew he would not be able to escape in time, and really, Henry would likely find him anyway.

He shuddered to think what Henry would do to him _when_ he was found.

"Come in!" he hollered, but his voice broke and Bert simply had to admit that he was scared. "Ah, Henry," he squeaked out.

Bert was standing with both hands on his desk, his body hunched in a rather wilted sort of way, as he watched the familiar face of his more prophetic nightmares walk through the door.

"Professor Waffling, now, is it?" Henry said, smiling as he closed the door behind him, and Bert tried not to think the room was caving in on him. Or that the last thing he would see would be the smiling face of his greatest pupil.

"Ah, yes," he struggled to say. He made a motion with his hand for Henry to sit, despite his better judgment, and, for both of their sakes, got out his brandy and poured glasses. Henry recognized it for what it was by taking the glass with a wry look. He waited for Bert to finish his first glass in one swallow. "How—" Bert stopped and cleared his throat. "How's your father?"

Henry crossed his legs. "Well, thank you. I'll give him your regards," he said formally.

"Yes, yes," Bert shuffled distractedly. "Do so. And Tyler?"

A terrible grin crossed Henry's handsome face, one that could have been either amusement or maliciousness. Likely both. "Dead. Been for a while, Bert."

Unsurprised, Bert raised his eyebrows and nodded. "How unfortunate, you have my sympathies," he choked out over his second draft of brandy.

Henry smiled. "I didn't feel his loss too keenly, I'm sorry to say."

Bert held back a whimper. "Yes, well, I suppose you're wondering why I've taken the position here?" he began conversationally. "Oh, it's a tale; yes, a tale, indeed! I've always wanted to teach at Hogwarts, and I was lucky to get the position of Transfiguration professor now. Though I'm not happy about the circumstances, dear me. How petty of me if I were! Dumbledore's death, you know, of course, but Professor, or, excuse me, Headmistress McGonagall needed an experienced lecturer, and I'm not too shabby at Transfigurations, and she agreed to an emphasis on Magical theory, and, you know, of course—"

"Bert," Henry interrupted, and Bert obediently fell silent. "I don't care," he said coolly.

Watching as his former student took a long drink from his glass and set it down, empty, Bert fiddled with his hands and licked his lips. He looked as frightened as he felt, no doubt.

"How much do you know?" Henry asked, staring at the desk in front of him.

"I-I…_well_," he stuttered.

Henry looked up at him just as he would when he was little, with an expression that said he was quickly losing patience. "How much do you know, Bert?" he repeated, and the Professor had a sudden recollection of not-long-ago when a small boy was asking questions in that same tense tone of voice, with a hard face and perilous green eyes. Bert swallowed roughly.

"Everything," he admitted. "It's not too hard to figure out, you know. Killing the Dark Lord with a Muggle weapon, you being the liaison for the Muggles. And me, personally, knowing your interest in…your interest in guns."

Henry scoffed. "All of those facts are irrelevant. The Wizarding world thinks I waved my hand and disposed of Tom Riddle. My job as a liaison is no longer needed – we're at war. Your personal knowledge of me, however," Henry paused and leaned forward while Bert leaned back. "Now _that_ is relevant."

"Oh, yes, well," Bert's mouth felt dry as he spoke. "I've a good memory, and I know you were looking into making Muggle weapons. That was telling, you know, Henry."

"As I thought," the lad said, moving away with a small sigh. "And what of it, Bert? Given the opportunity, and with the knowledge of me you _do _have, would you tell those who matter that the war was orchestrated by a little boy you taught seven years ago?"

"I do hope you've put the appropriate warding—"

"Bert," Henry grimaced. "Thin ice."

Waffling had heard that particular Muggle phrase years ago, when he had laid it on a bit too thick with Henry. The boy had said it and explained it to him. Fear of the lad's temperament did not make Bert shut up, no; fear of his apathetic competence to dispose of the people who tended to annoy him did.

"Right, yes," he coughed. "If I went to anyone with this information, Henry, I imagine I would be very dead, along with the unfortunate person I had told. And it would happen quickly, I should think, so I'd have absolutely no time to get any of my affairs in order. And would it be painful? Yes, judging by your muted expression, I imagine it would be."

"Do you really think I'd be so callous?" Henry asked, a concerned little frown in between his eyebrows. Bert swallowed.

"I know you are that callous, Henry," he spoke before he could properly think it through.

The boy did not seem pleased that Bert would think so, but neither of them were fooled that Henry wouldn't kill to keep Bert quiet.

"Is death enough to keep you silent?" Henry queried casually.

"You know me just as well as I know you," Bert said, feeling his heartbeat slow. "I am not altruistic."

Henry grinned. "Do you want an explanation?"

"Do I need one?" Bert scoffed. "I think not. I have always stayed well away from wars and politics."

Henry actually laughed then, the same endearing laugh he had sported so adorably as a kid. "You once tried to teach me to do the same," he recollected with a charming smile. "You see how well that worked, don't you, Bert?"

He felt his mouth stretch into an answering grin. "That I did. But where I failed in that precise vision, I succeeded in others. You are as brilliant as your potential foretold."

Henry knew that Bert wasn't one to flatter, just as he wasn't, and he laughed and raised his glass to the man. The flash of warm magic rose in him and hit Bert square in the chest. The man suddenly looked more dazed than usual. "Good talk, Professor," he said, rising.

"Yes indeed, Henry! So nice to see you! Give my regards to your father!"

"Will do," Henry agreed, before making his way out of the classroom.

Adalbert Waffling, it seemed, would live to waffle another day. And really, why would he not? He had no memory whatsoever of any such conversation about Muggle weapons or the destruction of the Wizarding world, or of the horrible look in Henry's eyes when he decided to spare Bert from death.

A look that said he was very slightly disappointed.

.o00o.

With that minor quandary taken care of, Henry set about actually paying attention to lessons.

Ron had gone quiet one morning, having gotten a letter from Hermione, who would still remain at her Aunt's house until further notice. She was still rather distraught over her parents' death, apparently. Ron and Ginny had conversed about Hermione's letters for a time, letters that bore no information on how she had obtained their bodies.

Harry wisely did not mention the subject at all. After dinner, a week of classes having flown by quickly, Ron was very solemn, and Harry supposed Hermione had written again. Ready to leave Ron to his sulking, he excused himself to wander out onto the grounds.

Autumn had come without any preamble but the subtle lessoning of the starchy summer air, and, overnight, it seemed, the leaves had gone from a lush green to a robust auburn. It cast a variety of hues across the grounds. He breathed in the slight chill of the evening air and the harsh burn of his lit cigarette before he took out his phone and punched in a few numbers.

"What do you want?"

Harry laughed. "Do you always answer your phone that way, Den, or is it just me?" he asked, flicking the ash off his smoke.

"Just you, you poof," Denny responded flatteringly. "How's school? Are you getting good grades? You're grounded."

"I haven't even answered you yet. I've got detention already."

"You're grounded."

Harry rolled his eyes. "School is tedious, pointless, and educational," he answered wryly. "Waffle says hello."

"Waffle? _Waffle_?" Denny near shouted. "That school made you round-the-bend?"

"Waffle, you know, Denny," he said tiredly. "My old teacher?"

"Aye," he grunted, voice full of amusement, telling Harry that Denny was having a laugh. "The one we didn't fuck with mentally, yeah?"

Harry cringed. "Well, not _really_…."

"You're grounded."

"Bugger off," he complained. "Waffle's teaching here, evidently," he extrapolated, before changing the subject. "How's John?"

Denny grumbled a bit before answering. "He's well enough to be getting on with," he said with a sigh. "Those heathens of his though, you'll never fucking believe it—"

"Just tell me, will you?" Harry snapped, knowing Denny could have a lark dragging the news out.

"The little 'un," Denny gave in and said. "Cassie. She's your kind."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "She's a witch?"

"Started making things float the other day when her sister took Cherry's filly out. Wanted to have a ride, and those two are always squabbling about something. Cassie threw a bloody fit and went and floated a toaster at John's head. I asked her to have another go, given she'd missed the first time, but she couldn't seem to do it again."

Harry laughed. "Oh, John's pleased about that, I suspect."

"Aye, says you've gone and infected them with your tricks. Not seriously, you know, but he's of a mind you're a bad influence, at least."

Smiling into the receiver, Harry could see John and Cassie in his mind's eye, struggling to put things right after her episode of Accidental Magic. Suddenly, he remembered turning his teacher's hair blue, ages ago, it seemed, and, hastily, he pushed that memory away. He hadn't eaten for close to a week after that particular incident.

"John's not hurt her, has he?" he asked abruptly.

Denny was silent for a moment, and then he coughed. "He's been fine, Hen," he assured. "Rather proud, I think."

"Right, well," Harry cleared his throat and took a deep drag of his smoke. "How's Frankie handling everything?"

Denny scoffed. "How do you think?" he retorted, irritated. "He's in his element ordering people about. Rashidi had some trouble the other day. Wizards attacked one of the municipalities in South Africa."

"Msunduzi," Harry offered. "I know."

"Whatever the name is, Rashidi had a warehouse there full of guns."

Harry felt his heart accelerate. "Where are the guns now?" he asked a bit breathlessly.

"Don't worry about it, kid," Denny told him quickly. "The warehouse had about a thousand men of Rashidi's to defend it. Rashidi moved the guns back to the capital yesterday."

"Good," Harry said, calming. "Good. Listen, Den, I need you to do me a favor."

"Whenever you start something with that tone, I know I'm going to regret saying yes," he sighed. "Right then. Go on."

Harry threw his cigarette out. "I need you to put a watch on Rahul. Don't ask me why yet. Just do it."

"You're a disagreeable yobbo, you know that?" Denny told him. "Yeah, alright," he agreed.

"And don't tell anyone you're doing it," Harry went on warningly. "Not even Frank."

Denny graced him with another stint of short silence before he said, "Aye. Have we got a reason not to trust Frank?"

Harry huffed into the phone. "Not yet, Den," he confessed, running a hand through his hair before saying, "Just watch Rahul for me."

"Oi!" Denny shouted abruptly, obviously suspecting Harry was about to hang up.

"_Jesus_, Den. What?"

Another silence, which Harry was getting vastly tired of, and then there was a shuffling as if Denny had risen from his seat. "You alright, son?" Denny asked quietly.

For some reason Harry could not understand, he felt a lump in his throat and an ache somewhere around his chest. It was a surprising feeling, given that Harry had not hurt in so long a time that the memory of it had faded and the feeling felt new. The abrupt wash of despair and his sudden quiet over the phone (which likely gave Denny his answer) only made him feel worse. He sighed.

"Oi!" Denny hollered again, and then again. And one more time, for luck.

"I'm fine, _you moron_!" Harry shouted back, and the noise on the other end of the phone stopped.

"Berk!"

"Relax a bit, will you? The world doesn't need a leader still in nappies!" Denny told him by way of goodbye, and then the line went dead.

Harry flipped the phone closed and shoved it into his pocket, shaking his head and wondering if he should feel angry at Denny for his parting jab. He'd never felt as though Denny was slagging him cruelly, was never miffed at his abrasive attitude, but he couldn't put his finger on _what_ exactly had unsettled him about their conversation. Why would he feel panicked? Perhaps school had made him loony?

He looked at his fingers, cold in the chilly weather, and laughed self-deprecatingly. "Pull it together, Brooks," he told himself. Then he turned to go back inside.

Harry still felt awful as he made his way to his rooms, having decided at the last minute not to go to Gryffindor tower that night, where Ron would be brooding and successfully making Harry feel guilty. As he made his way to the second floor, he heard a fracas coming from a barely-lit hallway to his left. The smack of flesh on flesh was rather revealing, and he moved toward the noise unthinkingly.

A few of the Slytherins Harry did not know had cornered a young man about his age, and they were beating him to a bloody pulp. Harry recognized the victim as one of Ron's peers in Gryffindor. Dean…something or other.

"You know why we're doing this, don't you? You're gonna fucking cry, right?" the leader was saying. "Mudbloods like you are the reason we're being killed. You filthy," he grunted as he punctuated each word with a kick, "_sneak_!"

A sickening crack echoed in the hall as Dean's nose broke. "Fucking _Mudblood_, dirty blooded traitor," he snarled, delivering another punch as his cronies laughed behind him.

Harry stepped forward, watching the massacre taking place, and made sure his footsteps were louder than the sound of the beating. The Slytherins turned around, leaving the Gryffindor prone on the floor, bleeding everywhere.

"Potter!" the leader spat. "Here to save your friend? Mudblood lover!" he accused.

Harry grimaced at him, shoving his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "You know my name," he said to the boy. "What's yours, then?"

The leader laughed, his friends echoing his amusement. "Theodore Nott," he introduced himself smugly.

"Nott, eh?" Harry acknowledged, not at all surprised.

Theodore scowled. "What of it?"

He shrugged again. "Nothing at all," he responded casually. "I couldn't help but overhear your accusations against Dean, here." He jutted a thumb at the bloody Seventh year. "Don't you think it's _a bit _irrational?" he added in a mockingly helpful manner.

Nott's face twisted into a sneer before he laughed loudly. "No, I don't think so, Potter. Blood traitors like you are the reason my father is dead!"

Harry scoffed. "Well now, that, you can blame on me. Not Dean. I killed your father personally," he said.

Nott made a move toward him, but Harry held a hand out and he stilled, as if the hand were an impenetrable barrier of some kind. "But that's neither here nor there," he went on. "I'd rather ask why, exactly, you decided to beat up this random bloke, and why in the _Muggle_ fashion…tsk, you _blood traitor_."

"You bastard," Nott cursed. "You're the fucking peacemaker for the Muggles. Everyone knows you're on their side. They're killing us! Because of you!" he swore violently and kicked Dean again, who groaned. "One of _them_ exposed us!"

Harry bit the inside of his lip, dragging the flesh forward before clicking his teeth. "That's highly presumptuous of you," he chided. "Surely you know, Nott, that Muggles are exceedingly intelligent and would have found out about our existence and fought for dominance without a so-called traitor. Besides all that, how on earth could you find fault in Dean? He's a Wizard, last time I checked."

Nott sputtered indignantly. "Muggles? Intelligent?" he choked and laughed cruelly, and Harry wondered if Nott was all there in the head. "You're jesting!"

Harry grinned bemusedly. "Nope, no jesting," he confessed, before taking out his pistol.

Nott caught sight of it and smiled. "What do you expect to do with that, Potter?" he said, holding in his hilarity. "Muggle weapons against a _Wizard_? What a lark!"

He did indeed laugh, but the moment of humor lasted as long as it took the bullet to sink into his knees, in which the irritating guffaw turned into a pained choke. The second bullet took out Nott's other leg, and the boy clattered to the floor with a howl of agony.

His lackeys turned tail and ran, and Harry watched them go, amused, before moving forward. Theodore tried to slink backward, but the pain from his legs made it impossible, and he screamed with fear and torture as he watched Harry approach. He knelt in front of Nott and tapped the side of the boy's head with the pistol.

"Ingenious, isn't it?" Harry whispered. "A Muggle invention that can kill quickly or slowly, in the most painful and gruesome ways possible."

Nott's body quaked with his words, and the visible hatred and fury he had harbored towards Harry seemed to have fled with his courage. Nott began to sob, and Harry made a face.

"Stop that, will you?" he admonished, tapping the gun against Nott's head again, but this time harder. "It's unbecoming. Not that I don't feel like crying once in a while, myself," Harry told him talkatively. "In fact, not ten minutes ago, I felt like a right baby, Theodore. I wanted to sob just like you. Go ahead and let it out."

Nott cried louder, and Harry waited a moment before sighing in a highly put-out manner. "Third shot's the charm," Harry told him, cringing when Nott screeched. "You'll pass out after this one, promise—"

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The pistol in his hand pulled a bit, but did not fly towards the Wizard, who Harry saw was Snape when he turned. He got up from his crouch and strode over to the Potions professor, who kept his wand aloft with slightly wide, burning eyes. Harry slapped the pistol into his hand.

"You needn't be _rude_," he snapped. "You could have just asked, you know."

Snape looked away from him and at the carnage of the hall, gaping a bit, before glaring at Harry in a way that said he was in _a lot _of trouble.

"Five _thousand _points off whatever house you're in for shooting a fellow student!" Snape bellowed.

"What a number," Harry managed to cheek before his jacket was grabbed roughly and he was being manhandled down the hall. Dean, now unconscious, and Nott, who continued to scream bloody murder the entire way to the Hospital Wing, came along with them.


	8. Chapter Seven

A/n: So we're all happy with the school days and family ties and you all understand where the characters are at and what they're doing, yeah? From this chapter onward, this shit gets heavy. I make no promises about an update next Friday. I may die on the table during my surgery and then what would you do? I don't want any grief if I don't make the deadline because I'm either dead or in too much pain to move, capiche? For those of you who don't ever give me any grief, _I adore you_. Not the ones who give me grief though. Oh, and Happy New Year! Got your resolutions handy?

A Few Responses: Ana: I love how you doubt if Harry told Blaise and Draco the truth about his animagus form. Honestly, I leave it up to interpretation. I may add in something later about him having/not having one, because I adore that particular cliché. Can you guess what animal I'd make him? I love you very much too! You're awesome. Hope you have a happy New Year and that all is well in your neck of the woods. Sincerely, I exalt your very existence!

Amazonia: You get infinite awesomeness points for writing this sentence: "The fact that only when he's in crazy-territory he's normal is crazy." This is why I love you so much. Seriously. Which leads me to…

Dedication: To **Amazonia** for being the light of 2010. Truly, without her never-ending support and beautiful soul, I would be lost and all of you would be S.O.L. in regards to frequent updates and comprehensible chapters. Besides all that, the beauty of Amazonia and I is that we don't need fanfic to keep us alive. We're blood. We're forever. To my BFFE Xena, for the year before and every year after. I love you.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, plot twists, language, and CD.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Seven

Harry would say, days later when Snape cornered him in the hall to yell at him _again_, that, though shooting Theodore Nott had been the highlight of his week, the consequences certainly outweighed the benefits. He had appeared properly remorseful when Snape had told the Headmistress what had transpired, but, unfortunately, it seemed he hadn't worn that guilt well. McGonagall had thought his apology impudent and not at all sincere.

He would also point out to Snape that it shouldn't be a surprise that he'd bollixed it up, considering he wasn't sorry at all for doing it, as Snape knew he wouldn't be. No matter Harry's excellent acting skills, McGonagall and Snape were furious, and Harry was in a hell of a lot of trouble.

"I cannot believe you," the Headmistress began with gritted teeth. "In fact, I am very well wondering if I should lock you away somewhere where the world will no longer have to deal with you."

"I'd be happy to tell you my reason for doing it, Headmistress," Harry told her, eyes a little wide at her scathing comment. "If you please."

"I do _please_," she bit out waspishly. "What could possibly make you think it would be acceptable to nearly kill a student, I should like to know."

Harry nodded and started to make himself comfortable by sitting in a rather disrespectable slouch, but then Snape kicked him in the leg, and he straightened up. "Well," Harry began, casting a quick glare at the Potions Master. "Nott was attacking a student because he was Muggleborn."

McGonagall balked. "And your shining defense was using Muggle weaponry very much prohibited in this school?" she asked tartly.

"It was, ma'am, and I'd like to have it noted that I had just cause in disabling Nott," he added. "I dislike prejudice as much as the next bloke."

She gave him a look of absolute frustration that made Harry feel a bit ashamed for a moment, and then the feeling was gone, and he was returning her expression in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Her mouth twitched. And Bingo was his name-O.

"Guns are not allowed in this school, Mr. Potter," she went on scolding. "Neither is attacking the students. I would expel you, but, with the present climate, I would likely be sending you to your death." McGonagall paused, glaring something awful at Harry's bemused face. "Suspension would only tip off the press that you were in trouble, and, if this incident gets out of this office, well…you know how bad the response would be."

Harry lifted one shoulder. "They'll think Nott was within his rights," he scoffed. "And they'll want my head, but they'll settle by ruining my political aspirations instead," he continued mockingly.

"Savior or not," McGonagall continued. "You've bollixed up, Mr. Potter."

He hid his laugh with a cough and said, "I do believe I have, Headmistress."

"Luckily, we've managed to save Nott's legs," she said, grimacing. "Though I've no idea how to keep him silent on the matter." McGonagall glared at him as he opened his mouth to speak. "And no, Potter, you cannot kill him," she cut him off.

Harry crossed him arms and slouched. Snape kicked his leg again.

With a very pensive frown, McGonagall leaned forward in her seat and stared at him. "I'm beginning to understand you, Potter, Albus—" she stopped and turned to look at the ex-Headmaster's empty portrait. "Albus told me very little about where you two were the night he died. He is being extraordinarily close-lipped about it."

Cursing mentally, he chided himself for not realizing sooner that Dumbledore would be forever immortalized in the designated portraits of Hogwarts' deceased Headmasters. That old man had better keep his gob shut, Harry thought rather viciously. Though his inner thoughts were less than innocent, he managed to maintain a very innocuous expression in the face of McGonagall's critical eye.

"May I ask what he _did_ say?" he suggested politely.

"No, you may not," the Headmistress said icily. "He explained little but that you quite liked Muggle weapons." She held up the gun with two fingers, dangling it by the grip. "I'm going to have to confiscate this."

"Fuck," Harry huffed, and then quickly backpedaled when McGonagall raised a warning eyebrow. "I mean, _gosh_. Suppose I deserve it though, ma'am. Might I ask when I could have it back?"

The other brow rose and trenches appeared in her forehead. "When I deem you able to refrain from shooting the students," she told him.

_Well, that's a lost cause,_ Harry mumbled inwardly. "Alright. I promise to never accost another student so long as I live… on my parents' grave. Cross my heart, hope to die—"

"You may not have it back," McGonagall cut him off, scowling. "I expect a formal apology to Mr. Nott—"

"_What_?" Harry blurted, before squeezing his lips together to remain silent.

McGonagall glared. "Make it a _sincere_, formal apology. You are not allowed Hogsmeade trips."

Which essentially meant he was under house arrest. Bugger.

"And the next time you decide to defend a student against an aggressor, I expect you to find a professor," she said, sniffing. "Or, if you're incapable of believing the faculty capable of running this school, a _Stunning_ spell rather than bullets may do you some good."

Harry grimaced, knowing a dismissal when he saw one, and made his way out of the office. He loved that gun. Now that old cat had it, and she was very close to losing what little faith she had in him. Not to mention Dumbledore bumbling about in his stupid portrait… He should have just killed Nott and burned the body, but he'd been upset and tired and had wanted to blow off some steam. Harry hated to make mistakes, and he wanted his _goddamn gun back_.

Slinking down the stairs with a petulant scowl, Harry suddenly realized what he was doing and sighed through gritted teeth. If the Colt had been modified, he would have been in a lot more trouble than just a measly request for an apology and house arrest. He always carried around that regular pistol anyway, but if he had deviated from the norm and a modified gun was on him…if he _had_ killed Nott…

He wasn't one for the game of what-ifs, but the thought of the alternative jolted him with a picture of reality. That had been close. And Harry had lost his temper. Damn.

Harry delivered a quick kick to the wall before him, and pain resonated through his foot at the action, but he ignored it in favor of stewing silently.

"Self-mutilation now, Potter?" Draco's voice appeared out of nowhere. "What did you do now? Snape looked ready to _Crucio_ you—"

"Where have you been all my life?" Harry asked, licking his lips.

Draco's face emerged from underneath the Invisibility Cloak, his expression both wary and aggrandizing. "Potter, you're an idiot—" but Harry wouldn't let him say anything on the matter of him being an idiot at all. Draco found he didn't mind very much that he was interrupted so rudely.

.o00o.

"Can't a guy have a drink with his ally?"

Rahul didn't crack a smile, and Denny stopped his grinning. His attempts to be well-mannered and witty had failed absolutely, but he found he wasn't too miffed about it, considering he loathed Rahul with a zealous passion. He made an unflattering face at the man.

"Why are you here, Mr. Brooks?" Rahul asked for the third time, blinking slowly.

Denny shifted in his seat. "Well, Henry and Frank sent me, to check in on distribution down here. Henry's in school, you know, and he feels a bit bad that you're working so hard. No, don't worry, Rajiha," he said, raising a hand when it looked as though Rahul would interrupt. "I've already grounded him."

Despite his frown at Denny's purposeful massacre of his name, Rahul finally relaxed a bit and nodded. "Tell him there is no need to worry. I have everything under control here," he said.

"I have no doubt about that," he beamed, leaning forward to stare at Rahul across his desk. "Say, how about that drink, Rahodji?"

Denny watched the man's black eyes narrow before they closed for half a moment. "Of course; though I have no alcohol here, Mr. Brooks. The Qur'an forbids it."

"Oh," he grunted, trying not to gape. "Tea, then?" he choked out. _Bloody nutters…no alcohol my arse. He's probably got a stash of port underneath that winsome beard of his.  
_  
Rahul rose from his seat, leaning on his ornate oak desk to push himself up and bark orders in Arabic outside of his door. No one answered, fortunately, and Rahul left Denny alone with a muttered apology. Watching from his seat as the man retreated down the hall, Denny suddenly dove for Rahul's desk, shuffling through papers quickly, looking for something, anything, in Frank's handwriting. He grasped a slip of paper and shoved it into his pocket, sitting back down as Rahul came back down the hall with a woman covered from head to toe in black fabric. She carried a tray of tea in her hands.

"Mint leaves," Rahul told him as the lady handed him a cup. "Good for digestion. You British like heavy tea with cream and sugars, which are bad for the body. I do not find it palatable at all."

Denny looked at the tea closely. "Bash a man's tea, will you?" he said without malice. "'Spect you'll go after my loyalties now. We'll have words if it's my Dandies you're making to denigrate."

Rahul frowned heavily. "I really don't have any idea what you're talking about," he said bluntly, choosing to ignore Denny's answering glare. "Tell me, how is Henry doing?"

Setting his tea down with a short huff, Denny said, "As well as can be. He's a scholar now, you know."

"Yes," Rahul murmured, nodding. "And he is at a magic school?" He waved away the woman bustling about, and she shuffled out of the room obediently. Denny didn't bother to watch her go.

"Aye," he began, slightly wary. "It's a Wizard school in Scotland, I think."

Rahul crossed his hands. "And what do you think of this?"

He didn't know what the man meant by that, and must have looked as confused as he felt, because Rahul smiled and extrapolated, "As a father and as a man of war, one openly against Wizard kind. I wonder, Mr. Brooks, if your son is the exception."

Denny understood now, what Rahul was asking, and he didn't like it, not one bit. "As a father, I'm proud but worried for my son. As an ally, I think he is clever to conceal himself this way. Oh, did you not think of it, Rahul? How embarrassing," he said, grinning meanly. "What better way to hide but among the enemy? They think him a hero, you know."

Rather than looking vexed at Denny's conceited answer, Rahul instead appeared as though he had expected such a retort. "Then you have no worry that Henry will find the Wizarding World more promising? We both know the victor is decided by your son. He will be the one to end this."

Jaw cocked and patience quickly fleeing, though it had put up a valiant effort, Denny snapped, "No, Hen isn't a turncoat. I'd watch your mouth around me. Slander my son to some other bloke. One who isn't ready to put a bullet between your eyes."

"Ah," Rahul responded indifferently. "A father's love for his son is unreasonable, but twice as strong as logic. I understand."

"How wise," Denny said, muttering insults beneath his breath. "Listen, if you think Henry's a bad leader, just say it. Or better yet, tell him that to his face. _Please_ tell him to his face," he suggested gleefully.

Seeming to finally recognize the danger he was in, Rahul uncrossed his hands and laid them palm up, as if to appear unthreatening. "Forgive me, I don't mean to make you think that I do not trust Henry. But you must understand my reluctance to have so much faith in a child. They are—" Rahul paused to search for the word.

"Young?" Denny provided, trying not to sound as furious as he was. "Foolish? I don't disagree, Raja, but you're ignorant of one very important thing." He sat back in his seat and gazed at the man impassively. "Ask me to tell you."

Rahul leaned forward with a loud sigh. "Tell me," he said.

Having had enough, Denny rose and, before Rahul could question him anymore, said, "Henry hasn't ever been a child." He added a proper scowl for good measure. "I'll show myself out."

Oddly enough, though he had gotten the last word, Denny did not feel as if the conversation he had just had was at all a victory. He felt as if Rahul had known far too much about what Denny thought, with his indifferent demeanor and careful queries. He felt as though Rahul might just know more than Denny himself did.

Walking out of the building, his face still twisted in angry contemplation, Denny took out the Portkey Henry had sent to him and activated it. Once he was in front of Tyler's Manor again, he took out the slip of paper he had pinched from Rahul's desk. It said very little, but also just enough: _Friday_. _Noon_.

Perhaps Frank, for this was indeed his familiar handwriting, had simply scheduled a luncheon with his ally and was not up to anything out of the ordinary. A harmless meeting, surely.

But Denny rather thought it was more than that. He hadn't liked that quiet, unobtrusive attitude of Rahul's, and he was beginning to think that Frank was far more ambitious than what was anticipated. He worried, because a suspected betrayal involving not one but two allies could possibly be detrimental. He worried, because it sounded like their side wasn't as full-proof as they thought. With the note half-crumpled in his hand, Denny took out his mobile and decided.

"What do you want?"

"Do you always answer like that, or is it just me?" he snickered, but then he sighed because, at the moment, he was unable to find much humor in anything. Clearing his throat, Denny went for the kill. "Lad," he said, "we've got a problem."

.o00o.

Hermione stood in her room and took a deep breath. Her trunk was open at the foot of her bed – open, but not unpacked, and she gazed at it with little motivation to put her things away. Instead, she sat down heavily on the warm covers and enjoyed the silence. She was missing class, but, for once, it didn't seem to bother her. It was her first day back at Hogwarts, and she had only returned because her Aunt had begged her to continue her education. Also, Ron had sent numerous letters in an attempt to get her to come back. She had finally conceded, but only after she'd buried her parents and mourned for a week or so. By then, her fingers had been twitching for something, anything, to do.

She didn't want to think about her parents now, but the images of their cold bodies would stay in her mind eternally. Strong and terrible. Hermione sighed again, looking at her trunk forlornly, and supposed she had another hour before her roommates returned to the tower. It wasn't that she didn't want to see any of her old friends… or maybe it was. She simply didn't know how she felt at all. Knowing she didn't want sympathetic words or unfeeling comments about "staying positive," Hermione gathered that talking with anyone was the last thing she desired. But, then, she thought, if her suffering was ignored entirely, she would be upset that no one had bothered to care. That no one thought it mattered that her parents were dead.

Hermione was always one for logic, and grief had a penchant for making her irrational. She found herself angry and sad and frustrated with herself and everyone close to her. Supposing she dealt with both of them – the sympathetic well-wishers and the ones who would rather look right through the tragedy – and exploded in a terrible bout of emotional instability? Hermione felt as though doing such a thing was so completely against her control that she may just break down at the thought. At the very thought.

Hermione had only once before considered leaving everything behind for some peace. After her second year, things had seemed unfixable. The diary she had accepted as a gift had torn her apart, touching on everything she'd wanted that was unattainable, with promises of fantasies that would never happen. Then… then she had realized it was all fictitious, and she had to confront the reality before her. The reality that Hermione Granger would never fit in, that she was an outcast no matter what world it was, and that, despite how hard she tried to be perfect, she made mistakes. Horrible, terrible mistakes that she didn't want to live with.

And then there was Ron.

After Dumbledore had saved Hermione from the catastrophe she had caused, Ron had suddenly come to her side and had stayed there. For months, Hermione had waited for him to leave, as everyone else seemed to, but still, he remained. Forever loyal and forever true. They started dating, something Hermione had never envisioned for herself. She fell in love with her boyfriend, and then she fell in love with Ron. Now that a new disaster had struck, Hermione thought on her Ron and wondered if he was a part of the 'everyone' that she didn't want to see or speak to.

_No_, she thought, laying down on her bed and stretching her arms over her head, _I want to see him badly._

But that would mean seeking him out. So far, the only person she'd had to deal with was Headmistress McGonagall, who expressed her apologies for her loss before pressing forward and assigning her classes. Hermione had appreciated that very much, was glad that McGonagall hadn't harped on the subject, as many did. She had merely pointed out that if Hermione needed a break to visit family or to just simply not do schoolwork for once, she'd only have to say the word.

Thirty minutes back at Hogwarts and she already wanted a break.

She tried not to be upset with herself. Glancing at the clock with deep breath, she observed that lunch was now beginning in the Great Hall, and suddenly, she was angry. No one would expect her to come down if they even knew she was back, and the 'walking on eggshells' nonsense they'd likely pull after seeing her frustrated her to the point of madness. People were so infernally _predictable_, and it made her positively irate. She got up from her bed, feeling as though a monster was rearing up inside of her, and wiped away the tears that had collected at the corners of her eyes. Hermione would show them that she was stronger than they thought, that she didn't need their consolations and fake empathy. And her Ron was there, and he would not know what to say, but it wouldn't matter anyway, because he was hers. Hermione left her trunk opened but untouched and marched down to the Great Hall.

When she arrived, in a haze of fury and volatility, she looked for bright red hair and saw Ron stuffing his face with steak and kidney pie and ignoring his sister, who sat in front of him with a scowl on her face. Hermione didn't understand why she felt comforted by the sight, because she knew she wasn't better, and the sorrow waited in the shadows to overwhelm her at any given moment. But she could ignore it and greet her boyfriend, whom she hadn't seen in months. She could.

As she stepped forward, no one turned their heads to gape at her, no one cared, and Hermione was suddenly happy it was so. She didn't expect, however, the boy sitting next to Ron, that boy who she could see had captured her boyfriend's attention quickly and confidently. She didn't expect that Harry Potter would be there at all, or the unadulterated and absolute wrath that rose up inside of her at the sight of him.

Hermione stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, looking into the face of the boy she suspected had a hand in her parents' murder, and the wheels in her head turned, and the room shrunk until it was him and only him. She fled quickly, red hatred burning in her eyes.

.o00o.

Mina didn't like Spain much, but she certainly wasn't going to tell Alejandro that. The man was patriotic enough to be peeved if Mina said it was too dry and too warm. Since, compared to her country, Spain was considered the tropics, it was no surprise she disliked the climate. She also wasn't a fan of being in a place where she did not speak the language, for it always made her think that people were speaking about her, maliciously or otherwise.

But Alejandro had extended the invitation to his villa in return for her hospitality in Russia, and refusing would be a slight even among friends. One thing she did approve of, however, was the Spanish cuisine. They were heavy on the breads, beans, and spices, of which she did not get much of in Russia. Though Alejandro's company was nothing to be scoffed at, she was under no false conceptions that she had gone to Spain for the food alone. Having admitted this to her friend (rather sheepishly) he had merely thought it funny, especially when Mina had brought a crate of vodka with her, a complimentary gift that she had opened straight away with a disapproving glare at the proffered Spanish wine.

In the parlor room, she poured liberally into her glass, and, every few moments, she looked up, a bit cautiously, at Alejandro. She knew what he wanted to talk about, and she thought it prudent to speak of it as well, but, for some indiscernible reason, the subject made her nervous. Alejandro had that very knowing look in his eyes.

Mina sighed. "Spit it out, Andro. You're making me angry," she said, taking a huge, bruising gulp of her drink.

Alejandro laughed. "My dear, you seem impatient today," he teased, raising an eyebrow at her glare. "But I will forfeit. Henry Brooks has yet to contact me."

She was unable to prevent herself from gaping. "He didn't visit you in Russia?" she asked.

"No, you would have known if he had," Alejandro informed her, still observing her closely. "I would have told you, Mina."

"I thought you had spoken to him in confidence," she shrugged, sitting back, her drink at the ready.

"And you thought I would not return the favor and tell you of my meeting with him," Andro assumed, looking a little hurt. "In any case," he went on before she could apologize, "he hasn't met with me. Or made an attempt to meet with me. I had thought I made my alliance known."

Mina thought it was odd as well, considering Brooks had not hesitated to speak with Mina at all. She didn't think he was one to simply accept a follower without acknowledging them, or, indeed, asking what they wanted for their support. Mina told Alejandro so, and he nodded.

"I did not think so, either," he agreed sagely. "I have sent letters to him. Numerous ones, but he does not respond. I think they are being intercepted."

She sat up, nearly spilling her precious imported vodka. Her brief panic over the near disaster made Alejandro laugh happily. "But that would mean someone is out for blood," she said with a glare at him.

"On my side or his." He dipped his head slowly. "Yes."

"He gave me the means to contact him," Mina said quickly. "Shall we try? To see if someone is cutting off my contact with him as well?"

Alejandro looked as if he hadn't thought of that. "You haven't spoken to him at all since that day?" he queried with curious frown.

Mina finished of her glass and went to her bag, where she kept the gifted pistol wrapped in a clean cloth. "I saw no need to," she admitted.

Looking at the gun, she raised an eyebrow at Alejandro and held up the ammo. "I load it and he appears, or so he said," she told him, before putting the bullet in the revolver and swinging the chamber back into place. The click of the gun echoed throughout the now-silent room, and they waited, and waited, and, after five minutes of nothing happening, Mina sighed.

"Then we have our answer. Either I've been played, or someone is interrupting our—" she was cut off abruptly when a bright light enveloped the room, blinding everyone in it, before it diminished completely, leaving Mina cursing up a storm and rubbing at her eyes. When her vision cleared, she saw Henry standing in front of them, looking as composed as usual.

"Who is interrupting what now?" Henry asked casually, brushing his shirt down.

Mina stood, noticing, out of the corner of her eye, that Alejandro did as well, though he had the presence of mind to have his rapier ready. She shook her head at him, and he put the sword away.

"Henry," she greeted him warmly. "We were speaking of our ability to contact you."

He grasped her outstretched arm and leaned forward to kiss her on each cheek once, going back to the left for another, as was formal between friends. Despite herself, Mina knew her face was a brilliant red. "I'm glad the gun worked," he said, and then he turning his green gaze on Alejandro. He caught his breath. "Mr. Guillermo?" he questioned softly.

The Spaniard stepped forward and clasped hands with Henry, looking just as awed at the boy in front of him. Perhaps more.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brooks," Alejandro said politely. "Please, sit," he offered.

"Drink, Henry?" Mina asked, holding up the bottle. The young man smiled at her but blatantly eyed the Spanish wine.

"I'm partial to wine," he teased with good humor.

Alejandro actually laughed, a rare thing in the company of strangers, and Mina excused his joking with open amusement. She handed the lad a glass and flushed when he sat beside her.

"This is unexpected," Henry said wonderingly, though he seemed very happy to be there. As if it hadn't been unexpected at all.

"We had not planned it ourselves," Alejandro confessed guiltily. "I have sent letters to you but have received no answers back. Mina offered to contact you."

The surprise on Henry's face alarmed Mina. She dove into her drink with a new vigor and brought out a cigarette to add to her chosen vices. It seemed to be a green light for the others, because Andro lit his cigar quickly, and Henry was puffing on his smoke not moments later.

"Someone is intercepting my mail," he said, dragging the smoke out. "I apologize, Mr. Guillermo. Though I have sent letters to you as well, I should have sought you out when I received no reply, but I let other things distract me."

Alejandro raised a hand to make peace. "It is fine, and, please, call me Alejandro. My father was Mr. Guillermo," he said lightly, smiling.

Henry nodded. "Then you'll call me Henry," he insisted.

"Who is it?" Mina asked, talking over the pleasantries. "Do we know who is preventing us from speaking?"

"I've an idea," Henry hedged. "Someone on my side, I should think."

"Frank McAllister," Andro said bluntly.

When Henry didn't say anything in regards to that accusation, Mina decided she would. "That is a very heavy assumption," she warned. "So quick to point the finger at McAllister? I thought you liked him, Andro."

"Henry's eyes tell me it is him that is suspect. Him and Rahul," Alejandro mentioned, raising a shoulder. "Rahul, now, I know him to be traitorous at the best of times."

"If Frank is in league with Rahul," Henry explained to Mina, "then he would want to isolate my allies – such as Alejandro and yourself. He doesn't know about the gun, however, but he is aware I keep in contact through messenger birds sometimes. Whether it's Frank or not, we know that a Wizard or Witch in involved."

At her confused look, Alejandro finished for Henry. "Magic would be the only way to intercept traveling messenger birds. Especially a spelled avian," he clarified.

Mina nodded, looking down at her glass pensively. "Would we speak to Frank and Rahul about this?" she asked, though they all knew she meant "can we kill them?'

"No," Henry said. "Not yet. I had Denny," he turned to Alejandro and explained, "my father, visit Rahul yesterday. He found a missive from Frank that bore only one message: Friday. Noon."

"Then we'll wait for Friday," Alejandro approved his stratagem.

"Aye," Henry acknowledged, looking sad of a sudden. "Rahul, I've a mind, is after the guns.  
I didn't think Frank was like this, however. I'm afraid to trust him, even after all of this. I hope I'm wrong."

Mina scoffed loudly. "Always wanting more power," she condemned, "You British are intolerable."

Henry smiled at her repartee. "Frank's American, Mina," he corrected.

She groaned and slurped down the last of her second drink. "Even worse," Mina claimed comically.

They both turned back to Alejandro and waited. Mina admired Henry for a moment. He looked tired and saddened with the weight of the war. His expression was calm and perceptive, however, and Mina was glad he seemed intact, at least in his mind. As devastatingly handsome as always, he sat with confidence among them, not as if he were better, but as if he were an equal, with only a slight edge of inferiority that could only stem from his age and his known limits. She feared she had missed seeing him, his tightly controlled face still full of relaxed ability and emotional ease. A lie, but a well-practiced lie. And, of course, those ridiculously green eyes that looked into and through a soul.

Mina wondered if, in certain company, he acted his age, but shook the thought away. No one able to so aptly relate to their elders could have an alternate semblance at home. The boy would have to be mad, and Mina could not picture an adolescent, inexperienced Henry Brooks, even after two glasses of vodka. Like all diplomats, there was a public face that had to be in use during meetings such as this, but Mina noticed that, if Henry was a diplomat, he utilized a tactic she had never seen before.

His simulacrum seemed real, as if he were using his true form for negotiations rather than a fanciful one. Perhaps it was what attracted Mina, and many others, to him. Perhaps it infuriated and offended others. Alejandro, apparently, quite liked Henry Brooks for his transparency and easy honesty.

"You wish to ask me a question," he said to Henry. "You'll find that I'm not easily hurt. Please ask," he requested gently.

Henry nodded his head politely, which was in stark contrast to the very bold question he asked afterward. "What do you want for this alliance?"

The lad didn't go into the specifics of his suspicious, or Andro's actions in helping others onto Henry's side, for which Mina was very glad. It was unnecessary, and foolish.

"I want a world where there is acceptance, for all forms and all convictions. Where proof can be found that faith is not faithless. I want a world where my family can live without fear of the evil, of the unknown."

Henry swallowed and looked up at him through his lashes. "You're very idealistic," he pointed it out.

"Utopia isn't such a grand delusion as people think," Alejandro argued, shrugging off Henry's comment. "It will be a very long time before this happens, perhaps after my death. Perhaps after yours—" he paused and puffed on his cigar, looking at the end briefly before notching it. "But this is a start. We will win this war, and there will be assimilation, reconstruction, and then progress. Much needed progress."

Stubbing out his cigarette, Henry shook his head briefly. "Even so, there are still people who are inherently evil. Still people who will kill regardless of a reinstated moral code," he said.

Alejandro leaned forward. "Tell me," he asked softly, "after this is over, will you not give up the gun?"

Mina twitched beside Henry. "If there is peace, then there is no need for the gun," she added her two cents.

"But evil doesn't cease. Security—" the boy began, but Alejandro raised his hand again to silence him.

"Security is another matter entirely," he said. "You would not give it up?"

Henry remained silent, so Alejandro continued. "Then you are a fine example to the world you wish to recreate," he told Henry thoughtfully.

"You must understand," he said quickly. "That some are unshakable, that, without certain evils, we would not have a concept of right and wrong in the first place."

"You're asking for an exception to the rule," Andro scoffed, sitting back with a sigh. "Henry, Henry," he murmured, reaching out to grasp the boy's arm. "I ask you to do this not for the sake of the world, but for yourself. You're a remorseful asesino, and you will destroy yourself with only your determination to perfect the world. But if it is perfect, what will you do?"

Silence again. For a long while, Henry sat and stared until he pulled his hand away gently and nodded. "It is necessary now," he admitted softly. "But I'm not adverse to the idea of giving it up. Of changing as well."

Alejandro dropped his head in respect. "That is all I wanted to hear," he responded.

"Why do I feel as though you know more about me than I do?" Henry asked him, quite candidly anxious.

"Perhaps I do," Alejandro laughed. "We all have our beliefs and goals, Henry Brooks. Yours just happen to be bigger than dreams."

Mina smiled. "Alejandro is a believer in a God able to assign us purposes," she playfully scoffed. "I told him the only God I've ever known was my father, and his vices would turn the devil green."

Henry laughed, honestly amused. "Neither of you are faithless, though," he told them contritely. "And neither am I, to be honest."

They rose with him when he stood, Mina stumbling a bit and looking at the empty bottle of vodka accusingly. Henry smiled at her and kissed her cheeks, and she grinned at him quite affectionately. Alejandro watched her with amused eyes as he shook Henry's hand in farewell. They didn't find it odd, his abrupt need to leave, because they were all alike there, and nothing could take them by surprise.

"Here," the boy said, reaching into his pocket. He handed Alejandro a pocket pistol. "Load it, and I'll be here."

Alejandro took the gun and held it up in thanks. "Ingenious, you know," he remarked sincerely.

Henry grinned. "Yes, I know," he hesitated, but only for a moment. "It was good seeing you Mina, and it was a pleasure to meet you, Alejandro."

"I will speak with you soon, Henry," he said.

The lad popped out of existence silently, and Alejandro turned to his friend. Mina sat down on the sofa with a heavy, tired sigh. "Too beautiful," she said, obviously commenting on the charming Mr. Brooks.

Andro had to laugh. "He is that, though it will take a few more drinks before I have that conversation with you," he said, pulling her up. Before she could point out that the crate was still full of vodka, he told her, "You have had too much already."

She smiled at him. "I haven't had near enough!"

Somehow, he found he couldn't argue with that.

.o00o.

Getting into the Headmistress' office undetected was more of a trial than Harry would have thought. The Gargoyle wasn't much of a problem, but the wards were. Harry was known for swatting mild protections away with ease, having had quite a bit of practice doing so, and he knew the general makings of the wards to accelerate the disabling of them. The problem was that not only were there spells to keep people out, but interwoven wards that made sure dismantling the magic would not go ignored. It was Domino-Theory warding, and though Harry could destroy it, it would take time. McGonagall was in her office almost the entire day, and the windows of her rare absences were only forty-five to fifty minutes, at best.

Harry, therefore, enlisted the help of the resident poltergeist, asking him to cause a bit of havoc on the seventh floor just after lunchtime. McGonagall would be taking her meal in the Great Hall for a half an hour and then dealing with Peeves for another insured hour. That left Harry just enough time. After negotiating with the Bloody Baron, who promised to let Peeves cause trouble for a week, given the Baron was notified the next time Harry decided to shoot someone (preferably not a Slytherin), Harry went to Ron for help as well.

With his mouth stuffed with cobbler, Ron looked pleased to be in on a scheme worthy of Fred and George. Unfortunately, Hermione was there as well, and she was glaring at Harry with all she was worth. He ignored her.

"So what do I have to do again?" Ron asked, once he'd swallowed.

"Just get McGonagall when Peeves starts trouble. When she leaves, or if she leaves early, set off one your brothers' Dungbombs down the hall."

Hermione looked as though she wanted to scream at the both of them, so Harry added, "Discretely, of course. If she sees you, the gig is up."

"Why don't you just ask Professor McGonagall to speak with Dumbledore?" she finally said with a huff. "Instead of breaking multiple school rules all at once?"

Harry did not tell her that Dumbledore would be out of his frame if he had advanced notice of their meeting, for the man had proved, with his avoidance, that he was quite unwilling to talk to Harry. Instead, he grinned at the bushy-haired Gryffindor and said, "What fun would that be?"

Peeves began his assault just before the end of lunch, and Harry stole away to the Headmistress' office with a conspiring wink to Ron. Harry could hear the ruckus Peeves was causing from the entrance, and he reminded himself to congratulate the mischievous ghost on a job well done. He returned his attention to the wards with a small smirk.

Rather than collapsing them entirely, he quickly catalogued the areas of the web that would give him away, creating a link of his signature within the barrier and allowing for him to pass unharmed. It took the better part of an hour to gain access, but when he did, the Gargoyle slid open and the staircase gladly carried him upward without trouble.

Dumbledore was indeed in his portrait when Harry came into the office, and the sort of loud snoring told him the old man was awake and trying unsuccessfully to deter the looming conversation. Harry shook his head and approached the portrait, looking up into a familiar face.

"I know you're awake," he said to Dumbledore. "I need to speak with you."

Dumbledore did not open his eyes, but he stopped his snoring and began to sidle himself and the chair he was in, trying to out of the frame. Harry froze it with a flick of his hand. "Don't do that," he snapped.

"Well, I never!" the other portraits cried.

"Look here, boy—"

They continued their verbal attack until Dumbledore opened his eyes completely and Harry unfroze the painting. "Alright," he said to the room, and the others quieted. "What is it you would like to talk about, my boy?" he asked jovially.

"You know very well," Harry admonished him soundly. "Why the confidentiality?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

Dumbledore blinked. "Would you rather I informed everyone present of your past misdeeds?"

"Don't try to be the voice of the righteous," Harry snapped at him. "It just makes me want to shoot you. Now, why haven't you told McGonagall?"

The old man sat back and crossed his hands over his belly. "You won't like my answer," he warned.

"Try me," he said dryly.

"It's a righteous answer," Dumbledore joked. Harry stared into his twinkling eyes stubbornly, his face a mask of impatient disapproval. Dumbledore sighed. "What good would it do, Harry? Another life would be destroyed."

"My life, you mean," Harry laughed bitterly. "I'm afraid it was destroyed a long time ago, Dumbledore."

He was immediately surprised that he had said as much to the man, who now looked very sad. Harry shook off the feeling and went on. "What about the greater good? When you were alive it was all about sacrifice. You were prepared to have my death for the sake of the world's peace, if I recall correctly."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful at that. "Death allows for quite a bit of time to think, Harry," he said, but he stopped when the boy huffed. "Don't be so keen to disbelieve my intentions; I have nothing to lose by being honest with you."

Harry rolled his eyes but remained silent. "I see what you intend to do with this war," Dumbledore continued, seemingly unconcerned. "And it is for the greater good; you haven't fooled me in that regard," the man near tittered.

"In a round-about way, I suppose," Harry shrugged, not entirely agreeing.

"But, since I am not speaking to the overwrought public, to people you have harmed in an attempt to do right," he went on, and Harry thought that, if he were talking with a living Dumbledore, perhaps his words would have carried more weight. "Since I am only conversing with you, Harry, I will tell you that I have remained silent because I will not have a hand in hurting you anymore than I already have."

Dumbledore adjusted his position in his lavish seat and sighed deeply. "And this noble task – and do not grimace; it is noble – it will do enough evil to the world, and your soul will be forfeit. The death of your soul, Harry, will happen."

"I've taken all of this into account," Harry told him through clenched teeth. "It's worth it."

The old Headmaster looked at him sadly. "But what if you don't die? What if you live as a husk of your former self, when all those you have loved have left you because of the mistakes you have made? The guilt I know you feel, no matter the necessities of enlightenment, will keep you a derelict, the exact status you wished to escape—"

"That's enough," Harry cut him off tiredly.

He knew that Dumbledore was speaking from experience. Harry wondered how the man had guessed he was feeling remorse, for he'd been very careful not to show it in his actions and expressions. The question of whether or not he wanted to live, after all was said and done, was not something he found solace in. So he did not think about it, at least for now.

"We are more alike than you think," Dumbledore said, his eyes perceptive but kind. Harry looked away.

"I've begun something that has to be finished," he whispered. "I can't go back now."

Dumbledore gave him a surprised smile. "Of course not," said the old man, jollier now than when he had been telling Harry things he hadn't wanted to know. "But you can decide how to end it. You can still redeem yourself to the ones you love."

He moved to respond that he was keeping the ones he loved wrapped up and secure, unwilling to even consider involving them too deeply, but stuttered at the lie. Love for Denny, who was in the thick of things, made him lose sleep at night. Love for his family, for the Weasleys, plagued him every day with the terrible risk of one of them getting caught in the crossfire. The crossfire of his battle. And the consequences of it – the fact that Arthur Weasley could barely look at him, the fact that he could only expect the same amount of understanding and acceptance from everyone else, should they find out.

And just like that, Harry was suddenly too tired to continue their conversation. Too tired to think of anything, really. "You won't tell her?" he questioned, still not meeting the Headmaster's eyes. "Or anyone else, for that matter?"

Dumbledore watched him closely. "I shall remain silent on the matter until I can't any longer," he promised, dipping his head. "You will have what you want, Harry, but I shall ask something of you in return." He chuckled. "As a portrait, I'm afraid I cannot request anything too substantial, so you needn't look afraid."

Harry glared at him to name the terms.

"When the time comes," Dumbledore sobered and turned serious. "I want you to forgive me for trying to stop you."

"You want forgiveness for the way you tried to stop me, not that you tried to stop me at all," he presumed angrily.

Dumbledore said nothing to that, telling Harry he was right, and he turned to glower at the old man head on. "I forgive you, there you have it," he said, motioning absently at Dumbledore.

"Thank you, my boy," Dumbledore cheered, before leaving his portrait without anything more to say.

Harry moved away from the portrait as well, unworried about the mutterings of the other Headmasters and Headmistresses above him. Dumbledore would have them in hand, no doubt. He took the pistol out of McGonagall's desk, happily closing his hand around its weight, and shoved it into his pocket.

"Thief! That's stealing, lad!"

"Stealing! How rude!"

"Thief! Thief!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, will you?" he yelled at them, and was quite pleased when they did so. He left the office, not feeling as happy as he likely should have been, and he wasn't sure why.

.o00o.

He was dreaming. In the radical world of slumber, the sounds of despair wove into the night, like currents of sweet smelling air. The cold, as fictitious as it was, seemed inordinately painful against his face. The outline of the landscape before him faded, and, somewhere, a light flickered and went out. The screaming wind, rather than splitting his ears and causing distress, as it would in reality, softened the world before him. A cacophonous chorus of bells streaked across the meadow, both pleasant and unpleasant to him.

Suddenly, there was fire. All around him, it blossomed through the grasslands, destroying the greenery in its path and melting the ice away. There was a roar of an explosion, extended into a slow whirl of sound. The tide of fire rose and rose until it crested and descended, heading towards him like a great monster. When it hit, there was no agony or death, but his skin warmed so beautifully that he smiled into the moonlight. The moon, the only thing not scorched by the inferno.

"Wake up," it seemed to say. The heat danced around him. "Please, wake up."

The ice wanted to remain. It was fighting back. A last effort to stay in the world of sleep and watchfulness. It rose, just like the fire, and both reared back like scrapping snakes. He stood in the very middle, in the median, and smiled as they touched tentatively. Enemies until the end.

"Wake up!" the moonlight shouted, rays of sound bursting through his ears.

Just as the two forces moved back, ready to fall into each other and freeze and burn, the voice shook him awake powerfully. He opened his eyes and saw Bo.

Years of coming out of a dream with the drake beside him made him unalarmed. He blinked at Bo blearily, his brain finally catching up to him after a few moments.

"Bo?" he asked softly, and the dragon snorted impatiently. "Bo, what is it?"

A cloud of smoke billowed out of the dragon's nose, and Henry's claptrap mind registered that Bo was upset. "It's John, human father," Bo told him quickly, moving about to let Henry get out of bed. "There was an attack."

He was awake then, no matter how much he didn't want to be, given the circumstances, and he put a hand on Bo's snout to calm him. Or calm himself. Perhaps. "What happened?" he asked promptly.

"Wizards," was all Bo responded, and Henry put on his shoes and grabbed a jacket, glad he had fallen asleep in his clothes again. "Let's go," he told the dragon, and Bo obediently wrapped his tail around Henry's waist.

They Apparated into a disaster. The orchard Henry had played in as a kid was nothing but fire, burning everything so fast that it seemed as if the entire place was consumed. The smoke obscured the moon, but enough light came from the flaming orchard that Henry could see Denny standing beside it, a gun in his hand and a helpless look on his face. Henry moved forward as Bo stepped back, and he caught sight of John standing next to his father.

"Den!" he hollered over the roar of the fire. "What _happened_?"

Denny did not look towards him, instead his eyes were on John. He took one look at Henry before his feet started to move. He reached Henry in a matter of seconds, and he saw the blur of John's hand before the pain washed across his face, and he was suddenly on the ground. John slammed a punch to his stomach, hard enough to break a rib, and continued his assault on Henry's face and torso with terrible strength. He could hear the words passing through John's lips, and they were what stopped Henry from fighting back after the shock of being hit so soundly had passed.

"I fucking hate you," John told him, his voice harsh and distraught. "Hate you, hate you. She's dead! Fuck, she's dead. I hate you," he sobbed, and the punches stopped but the words hurt more. John was suddenly pulled off of Henry.

With blood running from his mouth and nose, and his stomach protesting awfully, Henry sat up and looked at his friend, whose expression was twisted in anguish and hatred, alight with the fire and intense. The terrible loathing, the despair, in everything John did burned through Henry unmercifully. When Denny had taken him away, John had collapsed on his father, still cursing Henry with what little energy he had left.

Henry got up.

It was then that he caught sight of Mary cradling a body in her arms. A body too small to be anything but a child. She sobbed over the scorched remains of Jessica McKay, her little face distorted by fire and her body limp in irrefutable death.


	9. Chapter Eight

A/n: So many reviews for last chapter! Thank you so much! This is a short one, but we're getting to some pretty twisty parts, so be thankful this chapter is tame. Interesting, but tame. I love you all! Thanks for the well wishes!

A Few Responses: Dean: Я не знаю, что вы только что сказали. Но я люблю тебя. Вы говорите по-английски? ;) Ana: Lol, I liked your reaction to last chapter, it was funny. How are you love? Doing well? I hope so. What would your animagus form be, if you had one? Mine would be a kitty cat. I had a kitty cat once. See my profile picture? That's my baby. He died. Yeah. Shit.

Dedication: As always, thanks to the wonderful Amazonia for being just freaking awesome. Lessthanthree forever and ever.

Warnings for this chapter: lots of talk, foreshadowing, angst, and bad language.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Eight

"Henry," Denny was calling to him. "Henry, come on, lad."

He turned to look at John, collapsed on the ground where Denny had left him. His tortured sobbing was loud, audible even over the roar of the flames. Denny wrapped an arm around Henry's shoulders and pushed, moving him away from John and Mary.

"You need to leave," he said, but Henry wasn't paying attention. "Listen to me, will you?"

"Where's Cassie?" Henry asked. The heat from the fire was making him sweat, and he blinked away the sting from the smoke and stared at Denny intensely. "_Where's_ _Cassie_?" he demanded again, louder.

"She's in the house, Hen. She's fine," Denny said calmingly, his eyes bright. His fingers were a soft, pulsing pressure on Henry's back. "Go on back to school. I'll let you know when it's okay to be here."

"The fire," Henry remembered absently, looking at the blaze before them. "I need to help."

"You can't do anything now, Henry," he said, pushing Henry away. "Go back. Let them mourn."

In a daze, Henry gave in to Denny's requests and walked back over to Bo. The dragon was trundling about unsurely, his eyes orange and red from the firelight. Henry looked away from Bo and back towards his father. Denny was dragging John to his feet. But Mary shoved him away when he'd tried to gather her up next. She cradled Jessica and screamed.

"Stay here, Bo," Henry whispered to him. His eyes still on the scene, he Apparated away from the manor.

When he reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, he started to make the long walk across the grounds. He needed to cool off, for it felt as though the fire was still there, looming over him and killing everything in sight. The heat burned his eyes and flushed his face, even with the chill wind of November cutting into his skin. Henry rubbed his arms and wrapped them around himself, stopping in the middle of the lawn to breathe in the oncoming frost of winter. It may have just been his imagination – or it was, all of it, just a horrible dream – but he could, even now, hear the bell-like screams and feel the force of the fire that had taken so much away in so little time. He looked up and saw that the sky was the dark red of warning.

.o00o.

Trying not to breathe too heavily into the mobile, he waited for Denny to speak on the other end. His cigarette, long burned out with him lacking the motivation to relight it, was of no real comfort.

Denny inhaled deeply on the other end and finally answered the question Harry had asked the moment he had picked up the cell.

"No," the man hesitated. "Not really. John was distraught, lad. He didn't mean to go after you like he did."

Harry licked his lips. "Can I come see them?" he asked. He waited out another long silence.

"It wouldn't be best," Denny sighed. "Not right now. I'll keep an eye on them, Hen. Give it a week or so."

He closed his eyes and listened for the sound of his father's voice. _It wasn't really my fault_, _he says_, Harry felt the words echo in his mind. _Not really_.

"We didn't expect it," Denny was saying. "They came out of nowhere. Jessica was in the orchard when it caught, and they must have shot her so she couldn't run. Bo got her out, but she was gone already."

Like a fox, is what Denny wanted to say, but he likely thought it insensitive. As if his rambling description wasn't. But the men who had attacked the manor had killed Jessica McKay like a fox, on a fox hunt, with guns and dogs of fire to put her down. Harry swallowed roughly and blinked the image away.

"Did you see what collapsed the wards on the orchard?" he asked, confused and upset as to how they had fallen so quickly.

Denny cleared his throat. "They managed the house too, lad. Not just the orchard," he admitted.

No one had ever broken those wards before. There should have been no way for them to do so. Those particular spells were _very_ specific; they relied not only on the personal signatures of those he was protecting, but also heavily upon his own distinct magic. No one expressly allowed by magic alone could get into that house, and it took more than powerful charms to destroy the wards. It needed raw, meticulous power, and a frightening amount of skill to do it. With the sort of power needed to take out his wards… well, Harry would know if there was another Voldemort running about. He would know if a Magical contender had stepped forward in the war, and, seeing as there had been no introduction, no information, no _anything,_ there was no way those wards could have fallen.

He hadn't realized he's spoken aloud until Denny responded. "Well, they got in, didn't they? Killed that little girl."

"I'll find out who did this, Den," Harry told him tiredly. "You'll tell John I'll get them, yeah?"

Denny scoffed. "Right. You just stay at that school, all right?"

"But what if they come back?" he pressed.

"They won't," Denny said quickly. "This was a warning, Hen. They didn't kill us all. They're telling us that they know who's close to you. What's involved."

It _seemed_ like sure logic, and perhaps if Harry was in a better frame of mind he would agree. The perpetrators needed to be taken care of, though, that much Harry knew, and he managed to shake off Denny's words while, safe in his mind, he knew that he would get them soon. That he would have forgiveness.

Denny told him to stay safe and hung up not a moment later. Harry clicked his phone shut and threw away his stale smoke. He had Potions class to attend.

Unfortunately, Harry found he couldn't concentrate at all during his lesson. After two blown up cauldrons (his had spewed into his neighbor's, who happened to be poor, unlucky Neville), Snape sent him out with a detention. Harry was cheesed at himself and his professor, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his bed with a bottle of something strong. When the students left, with some of the Gryffindors giving him pitying looks and Ron outright laughing, he slouched back into the room and set his bag down. Snape reemerged a moment later, a horrible scowl on his face.

"Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what made you so distracted that you graciously added two cast iron cauldrons to your growing list of replacement materials?" he asked so smoothly and coldly that Harry knew he was in trouble.

He was used to trouble, though. "I'm almost positive they were pewter," he retorted loudly.

"I sometimes fantasize that you died that night with your parents. It's a good dream, Potter. I even smile."

Harry frowned. "That's not very nice," he said, glaring at Snape's blank stare. "Alright," he sighed. "I didn't get much sleep last night, is all."

"You didn't get much sleep?" Snape repeated. "I hope you haven't been prowling the corridors looking for students to shoot again? May I suggest yourself?"

"You know," Harry started, shaking a finger, "you're actually cheering me up."

Snape observed him closely. "You left the castle last night, Potter," he said. "McGonagall noticed. She also noticed that the firearm she confiscated from you is now gone from her office.

Do you want to be exposed?"

_Ah fuck_, Harry cursed noisily in his head. He had forgotten the little matter of being under house arrest. _McGonagall's going to kill me. _

"There was an emergency," Harry confessed churlishly, deciding to be honest with the man. "A friend of mine lost his daughter last night. To Wizards."

Snape said nothing, though he glared at him as if to say, "What makes you think I give a shit?"

Despite it, Harry blundered on. "My friend—" he stopped and cleared his throat. "He thinks that her death is my fault."

"This friend of yours is involved in your war?"

"It's not _my _war," Harry protested hotly, and then calmed himself as Snape flushed with fury. "And yes, he is."

"Then you are partially at fault," Snape informed him indifferently, waving an errant hand. At Harry's rather alarmed and pained expression, he added, "You've no need to accept the blame for all of it, Potter, only take responsibility for what _you_ _have _done. The man signed his own fate in helping you, but there's no mistaking the root of problem. You are the cause of the loss of their lives and the lives of their loved ones. Never think differently."

"_You don't understand, Potter … you have taken away the _choice_ to be involved … there is nothing anymore by way of liberty…_

"_There are individuals … who make up the world … in this war, you will destroy many of them." _

"_I wouldn't destroy Draco."_

"_You have already taken him … the path is gone, not by his choice, but by yours…_

"_I think you will be the only one to suffer…._

"_Why couldn't you have just kept Draco out of it?"_

"You don't give a fuck if I feel guilty or not," Harry snapped. "And _don't _bring _him _into this again."

"My argument remains the same."

"I've _heard _your argument. Draco knows what's what."

Snape's jaw clenched. "A man lost his daughter last night, you said to me. When Draco loses his life, at least you'll have warned him first, right, Potter? Accepting blame is so hard for you to do, I imagine. It must _slaughter_ that pride of yours."

"I _accept_ the blame!" Harry shouted, his fists clenched. "I never said I didn't!"

"You're a liar even to yourself, Potter," the professor said, an ugly smirk on his face. "A liar and a murderer. I am not in the least surprised you can't sleep at night."

Harry forced down the screaming fit he very much wanted to have. "Why are you so cross with me? Have I upset you _that_ much?" he asked rather quietly.

He was taken aback when Snape laughed. "I don't like you, Potter. Which is usually enough for me to be _cross_ with anyone. I don't have the time or the patience to repeat last week's dispute, so

I will merely request, for the sake of my cauldrons, that you leave your personal demons outside the door."

Harry very slightly shook his head. "I will if you will, you fucking bastard," he bit out. Their benign teasing, which had dwindled over the months, was now at an end, it seemed.

"Get out," Snape told him, pointing to the door. "Education or not, some students simply can't be taught, and I won't waste another moment on you."

When the door slammed behind him, Harry had to wonder if Snape really was washing his hands of him. The thought panicked him, a bit, but then he shook the feeling off. If it was so, then Harry would hardly cry over it, and if Snape was only being Snape, then Harry would wait until the man approached him without disfavor. _To be honest_, Harry thought viciously as he stormed away from the dungeons, _fuck this. _

.o00o.

Bo was waiting for him at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It was late, close to midnight, and Harry knew the dragon would be upset about being out in the cold air, but this was the only time Harry hadn't been busy, and Bo was rather upset they had seen so little of each other. True to form, Bo was huddled beneath the massive Whomping Willow, which had ceased its thrashing when Bo had blown a warning spout of fire at the base of its trunk. It looked rather petrified, in Harry's opinion.

Curled up like a cat, the dragon raised his head when he saw Harry approach, but he did not say anything. Harry was unused to a hesitant Bo, and he recalled that, for close to two weeks now, his Bo had been reserved and quiet. It was a realization that alarmed him, and he stood in front of him, just as silent, worried.

"Bo," he finally said, frowning. "What's the matter?"

With a swivel of his head, the dragon blinked at him warily and shuffled into a tighter ball. "Nothing," Bo lied, before confessing very earnestly, "It's just that…you aren't well at all, human father."

Harry licked his lips, moving forward to stroke up and down Bo's long neck. "I'm alright," he sought to reassure, but it sounded weak, even to him. "John's daughter is dead, Bo, and I think it might be my fault."

Bo leaned into his hand. "Dragon father says that bad things happen to good souls, and that no one is to blame but the Wizards that ended Jessica's life."

Harry smiled, and Bo, seemingly unable to help himself with the onslaught of Harry's gentle hands, began to purr. "So they've been talking about me, have they?" he teased, laughing when Bo looked hangdog. "Don't fret, my dear. Tenebres is very clever, but I am one of those Wizards that killed her. Inadvertently, maybe, but I _am_ somewhat responsible."

"I do not think so," Bo argued, nudging him to keep petting. "But I don't understand you humans too much. Dragons don't ask why, but only accept that it is. Humans like to brood and place blame. My dragon father says that it's your way, but I think it's just too complicated. Must you always have a reason for things?"

Chuckling, Harry nuzzled Bo happily and said, "We do, I'm afraid. Maybe it _would_ be better if we didn't ask, hmm?" He thought for a moment and shook his head. "No, but I don't believe that," he whispered into Bo's scales.

"I don't think you have a choice in the matter," Bo said sagely, craning his neck to pick at Harry's hair. "Humans were gifted with the ability to question such things, and for absolutely _boring_ amounts of time, but if you denied your gift you would be insulting your Maker, you know."

"I thought you didn't like humanity, Bo?" he cheeked with a grin.

The dragon sniffed, in what Harry knew was a disgruntled huff, and professed, "I don't. I think you make things too difficult, and that you're too _serious_ about stuff. That doesn't mean you shouldn't ask your stupid questions and try and find your stupid answers, human father. It just means you'll need to try harder to find them. And before you even _ask_, none of what you find out would matter to me. Because I'm me and you're you."

Harry startled at that, and Bo touched noses with him. "And I wouldn't understand it anyway, you see," he finished.

"I hate to think we have that many differences, my dear," Harry told him a little sadly.

Bo laughed and spread his wing out, stretching around Harry like a cocoon. "If anyone asks, I never said this, but, human father…_you_ must see the difference between me and you. Whatever it is that made you gave you this gift, and for that, you can be the better soul between the two of us. Ling gave dragons their wisdom and understanding, but your Maker did so much more. It would be an insult to them, and to me, if you disregarded it."

Harry's eyes were closed as he listened. "I think dragons are the far better creature, my love," he said, wrapping his arms around Bo's neck.

"Of course we're the better _creature_!" Bo retorted hotly. "I can fly and blow fire. And I have excellent vision. _And _I can eat an entire herd of sheep in thirty minutes. _And—_"

"Braggart."

"Have you even noticed how big I've gotten?"

Harry looked up at Bo and then down at the entirety of him. Shamefaced, he realized he _had_ noticed, but not on a fully-aware level. His lack of compliments to Bo likely stung, and he moved forward to kiss his pouting drake on the nose; though he really wasn't much of a drake anymore. "My dear, you are _beautiful_," he said with sincerity. His warbling tone made Bo rumble happily.

"I can carry people! Just like dragon father! Griphook asked for a ride two nights ago, and he was very pleased! He said I didn't waver at all! And he only almost fell once!"

"_Only almost fell_—"

"And I promised him I'd give you a ride too, because he said you would like it, and dragon father told me to let you if I was careful—"

"Whoa, what?"

"And I said I'm _always_ careful, and it _is _such a nice night, really."

"Bo, I don't think, what are you—wait, Bo, _no!_"

But his protests were not heard because Bo was already up off the ground, and he was along for the ride. The fluid motion of Bo nudging his head into the back of his legs and catching him on his spine shocked Harry for a minute, that is until the height they were currently at knocked him out of his stupor. How had they gotten up so fast?

"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. _Oh, fuck_!"

Bo laughed joyfully. "Now you can _almost_ be a dragon, human father. I'd say it's about time you tried to be like me!"

Harry was inclined to disagree. He clenched his eyes shut as Bo ascended into the night sky, his legs shaking from where he straggled Bo's warm back, and he could feel the up and down of Bo's breathing on his ankles. Besides all that, the unpleasant reality that the ground was so very far from him, though it could still be very close, very quickly, made his stomach jump in horror.

Bo craned his neck to look at him.

"Oh, _honestly_!" Bo scoffed. "Don't be a cat about it!"

Despite his fear, Harry bristled at the comment and opened his eyes to scowl down at the highly-amused dragon. The sky stretched before him as if nothing were relevant besides the expanse of black as far as he could see. They went higher, and blood rushed to Harry's face as the chill wind bit into his cheeks. He inhaled quickly, and felt his fingers slowly release their clutch on Bo's back. The wind buffeted against him, running across his cold hands and face, sneaking underneath his clothes. His body warmed to adjust.

Harry looked up. Stars, bigger and brighter than they had ever appeared, loomed above them like white dots in a big black blanket. He could see the dark shadows of hills beneath them, but he turned his face toward the night again and stared. Bo shone like the moon, happily twisting and turning through the air.

He grinned.

"Much better!" Bo cheered, turning into a spin.

Clutching Bo tight, Harry gave him an admonishing kick to the side, feeling oddly blithe. His body lifted with Bo's, flying higher and faster until nothing mattered but the sky and the stars and everything around him that made them bright. Bo glided through the endless atmosphere, with nothing to stop him or slow him down, and Harry rested his cheek on Bo's neck. The beautiful, wonderful creature he knew he loved and adored carried him across the night. Hearing his thoughts, Bo hummed contentedly and began their descent, and Harry went with the incline and raised his arms to the wind.

They flew without reserve all the way back to the tree, for they had gone quite a ways in their journey, and even thought Harry's body was numb with cold when they landed, he laughed and toppled off of Bo happily. Grasping the dragon close to him, he smiled into the pearly white scales and felt Bo nestle him in return.

"Thank you, my dear," he said.

Bo chuffed quietly and purred. "Who knew mean old Henry Brooks could turn into such a softy?" he joked. "Shall I fly you about every time you get nasty? I might get tired."

Harry sighed, not at all offended or even unhappy. "Only you, dearest," he laughed quietly. "Only you."

.o00o.

His face hurt. He had the option of healing the injuries, putting a Glamour on them, or simply wearing them like an expensive suit. Henry was out of his element. He wished he knew how John would feel about seeing them. Would he want to make more black and blue marks? Would he be so angry that Henry had the balls to leave them on his face that he would seek to hurt Henry worse?

_Maybe he won't even notice,_ Henry thought, looking into the mirror and at his reflection. But the bruise around his jaw was stark against his pale skin, and the cut over his eye was still red with dried blood. The students and the teachers at school had noticed, but they hadn't asked. Henry brawling, apparently, wasn't much a surprise.

He left the bruises as they were.

What he should have worried about was John's reaction to him attending the funeral at all. Denny had told him not to come, to let sleeping dogs lie while the McKay family was in mourning. He couldn't do that, couldn't _not_ go and possibly miss his chance to talk to John, who might otherwise just never talk to him again. He needed to face his mistake and try his best to fix it. He could _try_, at least.

After speaking with McGonagall about his leaving when she had told him he had to stay as punishment, he had gone back to his rooms to put on a suit he hardly ever wore. A suit that would likely be his funeral garb from now on.

McGonagall had been furious at him for the theft, and for breaking his house arrest. He had explained to her the circumstances, that the gun wasn't his, but his father's (not a total lie), and she had reluctantly allowed him to bargain for multiple detentions rather than confinement. Provided, of course, that he would inform her of when he departed and arrived. Her tolerance had frustrated him, oddly enough. Or maybe he was simply too angry to deal with anyone. Angry at himself and angry about the situation.

Snape refused to speak to him, despite Henry's lingering outside his rooms and waiting for him after dinner. He must have said something to Draco because Henry hadn't seen the blond in a day and a half, and he didn't imagine Draco had anything else to do but visit with him. He wasn't surprised Snape had told his godson to steer clear of him, but he was disappointed. He might not have started a row with Draco. Maybe.

Sighing, Henry adjusted his tie and ran a hand down the front of his blazer, ready (at least physically) to attend the funeral of Jessica McKay. When he was across the grounds and into Hogsmeade, he Apparated to the manor, and the rain that wasn't in Scotland was in England; it pounded down on his clean black suit mercilessly. Henry scowled, but his irritation fled when he caught sight of Tyler's old home. The orchard was a pile of ash and the bones of roots, and a good side of the manor was blackened from the smoke. What caught his breath, however, was the quiet loneliness of the house.

He moved forward, pushing open the large doors, and stepped inside. It looked as though the McKay family had never been there. The blinds were all shut, the kitchen cleaned of food, and, when he went upstairs, the rooms looked unlived in. Empty. The place was empty. Henry made his way to the abandoned parlor, stopping to stand by the window. He nodded to himself.

Why he had thought that John would stay here was absurd. Henry wasn't entirely sure where the man would go. Perhaps back home, where he would bury his daughter. But not here. John wouldn't have stayed in England.

Henry felt slighted. He took off his coat and sat heavily on the couch, a bit of dust rising when he did so. He briefly humored the thought of tracking the funeral down, but thought that their leaving was enough of a "stay away" to actually keep him away. It made him want very much to sleep, and he put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

"I thought you might come here," a familiar voice said, and Henry only looked up when the footsteps stopped in front of him.

"Den," Henry whispered. "Why didn't you tell me they left?"

Denny looked down at him for a moment before sighing and sitting down on the chair opposite to him. He reached for the decanter of bourbon on top of the stand and poured them both drinks. "He didn't want you there," Denny told him, unnaturally subdued. "He asked me to tell you he'd left," he explained.

Henry's face flushed with anger. "So you're answering to him now, Denny, huh? You're pinning the blame on me too?"

Denny gave him the glare that was usually reserved for his victims. It took Henry aback, properly. "Shut the fuck up," his father snapped. "You don't start that shite with me, understand? I fucking made the choice of _answering_ to you the day I took your stupid arse off the streets." He pointed a finger at Henry, as if it were a gun, and added, "You've no right to think I've done anything wrong here."

"But why didn't you _tell me_?" Henry snapped back, embarrassed and depressed with Denny's cold attitude towards him.

"Why in god's name _would_ I?" he said. "You…_you_ listen to _me_, Henry: Going to that funeral would have put salt on an open wound, and you'd have made an arse of yourself. And me, subsequently."

"And I don't look like an arse sitting here alone?" Henry returned, blushing slightly in discomfiture.

Denny took a very large gulp of his drink. "When I'd first met you, I didn't think you would ever come out smelling like anything but roses," he stated, pouring another draft in a tired sort of way. "But in the last few months, you've lost that imperviousness, and, with it, this war has gone to the dogs. I thought you were a leader, a strong one, and a person who wanted to make the world better. Those people are rare, you see. But, you know…you're just a bairn with dreams you can't put into truths. And you've taken your past and made other people pay for it. In my line of work, that doesn't hold, lad."

"Why are you _saying_ that?" Henry asked him, very quietly. "What the fuck good does it do, saying that?"

"Have you known me to do good?" Denny growled. "I took you off the streets and made you a killer. I am, in a way, responsible for every man dead by your hand. If you won't hear the truth from anyone else, you'll fucking hear it from me," he said as he ran a hand through his graying hair. He refilled Henry's glass, but neither of them took a drink.

"The truth is," Denny began again, hesitating only briefly, "you're not good enough for this. You can't go it alone, and that's what you've been doing." He held up a hand before Henry could interrupt and object. "You've left your allies out of your plans for too long, and then you off and let them to deal with the consequences. I don't blame Frankie for taking things into his own hands. What else was he supposed to do?"

With his face carefully indifferent, Henry said softly, "You realize it _was_ likely Frank who sold out John's whereabouts. Who killed John's daughter."

"Probably," Denny said wryly. "In an attempt to kill or devastate you, no doubt. And he's done it, hasn't he? Look at you." He motioned to Henry. "I'm guessing you aren't getting much sleep, lad, and I'm not clever for it. Everyone will notice."

Henry didn't say anything because he felt too furious and shocked to argue.

"Hen," Denny started again, his expression pained as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The motion made Henry very, very sad, all of the sudden. "I made a mistake with you. I left you alone too much, taught you too much of the wrong things. I let you act like an adult when you should have been a kid."

"_Please_," Henry forced out from behind clenched teeth. "The only reason you even fucking adopted me was because I had power. You wanted your little pet prodigy. You _wanted_ this war as much as I did!"

"Oh, shut up, Henry," Denny commanded, running a hand across his brow. "Just stop the gabbing for one moment." He put his drink down and sighed heavily, not looking at his son at all. After a few minutes of thoughtful silence on Denny's part, and seething, silent anger from Henry, he finally raised his eyes to stare at the boy across from him. "I picked you up that day because you reminded me of my son."

Henry blinked.

"You reminded me of him," Denny went on slowly. "About twenty years ago, he was seven. He fell through the ice one winter, and he froze to death before I could get to him."

Denny capped off his drink. "Frozen solid, near," he continued, his eyes dark. "Staring up at me with his mum's pretty eyes, his little hands bloody from the sharp edges of the ice. Like he'd clawed to get out," he murmured, quiet until he looked up at Henry with a blank expression.

"You looked like him. I never would have given a damn about you if you hadn't looked like him."

"So, I was a replacement, was I?" Henry said, but without malice and no tact whatsoever.

Denny shook off his callousness with a shrug. "You were better," he said, tipping his head. "You had killed, and you had those Wizard powers of yours. I didn't feel like I needed to coddle you any. I didn't have to worry. And don't look so awkward, Henry, it's been twenty years. I've had time to mourn and get past it."

Henry gratefully nodded. "Alright. So I could raise myself," he concluded a bit coldly. "Glad to hear it."

Giving him a knowing look, one that said he knew exactly what the boy was offended about now, Denny shook his head and continued. "Ah, but I was wrong. I did worry. I saw you and I worried like I did with my dead son. I grew to like you just as much as you liked me. We had a dependency, you and I, and don't bother saying we didn't. I care about you, Hen. It's impossible to say I don't. But I made a mistake. I should have stopped you from turning into me."

Henry ran his tongue across the inside of his cheek and stared at Denny darkly. "Are you ashamed of how I turned out?" he asked, not at all ready to hear the answer.

"I am," Denny affirmed, nodding. "Ashamed of myself. But, you know, lad, at the end of the day, in everything but blood, you are _my _son, and I've the privilege of telling all those who ask me that I've got one _hell_ of a son. You could never be anything but what you are, and you're a _remarkable_ personality."

He looked away from the sincerity in Denny's eyes, reaching into his pocket to fumble for a cigarette. He lit it, took a drag, and cleared his throat. "But you think I'm not strong enough for this—" he stopped. Denny got what he meant anyway, so there was no real need to finish.

"I think you're seventeen years old. I think you've seen enough blood and death to drive most men mad. And I'm not talking about the lady's blouses that makes up half our kind. I think you either have to call it quits and pull out," Denny took a breath and wiped a hand across his nose. "Or you get your head out of your arse and finish what you started."

Henry nodded. "Den," he began, stuttering a bit. "Do you ever feel guilty about the people you've killed?"

Denny laughed, a soft slow chuckle that could only be the sound of scornful humor. "Every day of my ruddy life," he responded, smiling. "It's what makes us human, you know. The remorse. But you've got to learn to forgive yourself, and know that it'll all come to an end sooner or later. And then none of it matters."

"What about…" Henry waved a hand, taking a drag and wrestling with the decision of whether he should say it or not.

His father knew what he meant anyway. "Hell? Heaven?" he scoffed. "I figure that, if there's any sort of punishment after I've left this mad house, it's likely I deserve it. So there's nothing to grouse about, is there? If there's paradise, then I'll take that as well."

Henry had to laugh. "It's only a bullet away," he offered.

Denny answered his amusement with a deep guffaw. "The next step for a desperate man. But we're not quite there yet, eh lad?"

"No," he said, shaking his head with a smile.

They shared a comfortable silence, and then Denny opened his mouth loudly and looked to be thinking over his next words carefully. "Don't ask the dead for forgiveness, Henry," he finally said. "You can't yet, not until you meet them again. But you _can_ start with the living, and sleep a bit easier. You can start with letting John mourn his daughter's death. He'll either come back to you, or he won't."

"What if I want more than that? Seems like a shoddy plan, dad," Henry felt compelled to say. His forgotten drink looked appealing, and he took a sip with a small sigh of relief as the warmth traveled into him and soothed. "What if I want forgiveness? Or better yet, an answer? Some reason for what I've done and what I will do. What if I want more?"

Denny shrugged at him rather sadly. "We've all asked for a bleeding answer. Some people continue to ask, others stop when they learn to accept not knowing. I don't believe in anything, but I do believe I have a right to my life. And I know you're like me—" he stopped and sighed deeply. "If you have faith that you don't need any answer but your own choices, your own will, then you can live with it. I can't give you any more advice than that."

"Have faith," Henry repeated mockingly. "That everything happens for a reason?" he scoffed.

"Doesn't it, though?" Denny asked, brightly interested. "We're just characters in one grand story, you and me, and even though the author knows us better than we do, we're not just real on paper."

Henry smiled. "How do you figure that?"

Denny smiled back. "Because, no matter what, to me, there's always a choice. _I _make it so I can always choose, and I know, without a smidgeon of doubt, that this one thing remains the same.

No one can take my soul away from me."

The entirety of this conversation, and the one he had had numerous time with Snape, were running through Henry's mind. He _had_ been mistaken about taking away the choices of man in this war. Because just like his own self, people had the ability to choose, no matter that a seventeen-year-old boy was playing God. At the end of everything, the choice still remained, and Henry could do nothing to stop it.

"You're right, on all counts," Henry told his father, and he bit his lip, looking at his feet as he shook his head. "To think I never thought you were insightful."

Denny finished off his drink and said gutturally, "It's the alcohol."

Laughing and accepting the refill, Henry lit a cigarette, despite Denny's fake coughing, and took a moment to look at his father closely. How had he never noticed that Denny was a rather astonishing man? Perhaps the haze of familiarity had blinded him. Perhaps all children were unseeing and uncharitable when it came to their parents?

"What was his name?" Henry asked, watching as Denny looked up at the question, seeming to know exactly what he was asking. The man looked away again.

"David," he said softly, smiling.

Henry nodded. "For what it's worth," he said, pausing to make sure he had Denny's attention, "I forgive you for it."

A small smile stretched across Denny's face, making wrinkles appear slowly around his mouth and eyes. Despite its gentleness, and Denny's good humor, the expression seemed very sad. "That's worth more than you think, Henry."


	10. Chapter Nine

Panic Switch

Chapter Nine  
Intermission: _Letters_

_

* * *

_

Dear Mr. Rahul,

I'm afraid I am unaware of the distribution in Spain. It is true that we have received the packages of the items from Mr. Brooks, but he has not approached the subject of an ammunitions factory in Spanish territory to me or my associates. Perhaps you know something that I don't? I'm sure, however, that our mutual friend is very thankful you are taking the protection of the warehouses upon yourself, considering the recent attacks in England and New York. It is always wise to safeguard one's assets. I suggest you approach Mr. Brooks about the distributions; he would likely be happy to hear your ideas on the matter.

Yours sincerely,

Alejandro Guillermo

.o00o.

To: Frank McAllister

From: Arif Rahul

Happy to hear New York was in good weather. Too bad about England – they've an early winter this year.

.o00o.

Dear Andro,

My letters to Henry are still being intercepted, so I am planning on calling upon him tomorrow night. Enclosed you will find a Portkey. If you should like to be a good friend to me and meet with Henry as well, I would be much obliged. The boy makes me lovesick.

I heard about New York, belatedly, from an informant of mine. Do you know why Frank McAllister is showing his intentions so quickly and foolishly? I do not think Henry knows. His father, from the word around, is trying to keep certain things from the boy. He seems to think Henry is slipping and should back out of the proceedings. I supposed we'll see if he is correct tomorrow night, if you're not too busy to make the rather short trip. I won't be drinking this time.

I have recently spoken with Rashidi Shadd, and though I do not like the man much, I do pity him. His country has now completely surrendered to civil war, and none of his allies have yet sent help. The guns he was promised have not arrived. Somehow, I do not think this a fault of Henry's, and I'm sure you agree with my reasons why. Rashidi is quickly losing faith in the war, Andro. He is likely to pull out at any time.

I only think it prudent to inform Henry of these issues. Should I expect you?

Wishing you are well,  
Mina Novikov

P.S. Uncle Mikki knows what's going on. I'm sorry, Andro, but he's awful mad. I don't know what he'll say, but please tell me if I should have him locked in his room again. We've made it soundproof, I promise.

.o00o.

Alejandro,

Mina's told me some of what's going on, but she's tight-lipped about it all because she says I'm not to stress my nerves. I told her I'd fought in more wars, patriotic and not, than she could even fathom. Young people have no respect these days, and you are young to me. I never thought I would say it, but _you_ have no respect either.

What I've heard about the war isn't good, but to find that both my niece and the boy I considered a son are supporting such nonsense? My nerves are shot, Andro, and you're entirely to blame. Mina gave me your reasoning – about keeping your family, friends, and people safe. I call that bullshit. Yes, Andro: bullshit. I've known you since you were young enough to get away with pissing on me. That ridiculous explanation is the biggest load of crock I've heard in a long time. And I've been alive for a long time. I'm on death's doorstep, Guillermo, and I demand a reason that won't have me raging at you and causing my poor heart to strain.

So, _why are you doing this?_

You had better respond to my letter, boy; I'm not so old that I can't kick your dunderheaded ass.

Bullshit,  
Mikhail Voynovich

.o00o.

Damien,

Do not act until McAllister tells the time. Logic does not justify the reckless.

Rahul

.o00o.

Denny,

We are old friends, you and I. I will not ask you to choose sides in this; it has very little to do with you, my friend. If there is a person to blame, it would be your son, and you know that I am right no matter how much it pisses you off. Because of your delicate position, I will not ask you to choose. I will, however, tell you that this would be a good time to get out of it. Your life is forfeit if you remain fighting. I am willing to give you leeway, Brooks, because of our history together. Don't make me act, friend. Back out now. You could always adopt another.

Yours,  
Frank McAllister

.o00o.

Frank,

To blazes with you and your fucking pardon.

Denny


	11. Chapter Ten

A/n: This is a very long chapter. Wow. I apologize in advance for, well, most of it. For the ending mostly. I'm going to be apologizing a lot after this one. Sorry. Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews! Please remember to leave me a comment!

A Few Responses: Supreme Dark Lady Mongoose: Hey! I missed you! How's it going? Lol, I'm glad you like all the characters so much. I quite like them too! It's good to hear you're back with the story, I was wondering where my mongoose went. ...and how many times has _that_ been said in the history of the world? I have your eternal awe? Sweet! And I have the universe! I'm _so_ the coolest. Eat that, Oprah!

Dean: LMAO. Я буду видеть Вас сегодня вечером.

Ana: Hello darling! I'm tired. How are you? I think you would be my best friend's dog. His name is Eddie. He's an Australian Shepherd. He's everything you described yourself as...not to mention utterly and completely wonderful. He's my favorite doggy in the entire world! That would be your form. Hope you enjoy the next chapters as much as I did writing them (which, really, could mean anything).

Dedication: To Amazonia for pulling double-time this week and editing my horrendous chapters on account of my business and lack of attention. She's the best.

Warnings for this chapter: language, angst, mentions of CD, squabbling, and a cliffhanger.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Ten

"Will you not talk to me?" Harry prodded, standing firm in front of the door and successfully blocking the exit. "You can't ignore me forever," he added angrily.

Snape said nothing as he continued to clear his work desk of various potions and vials. If Harry were in a better mood, he would have praised Snape for his talented ability to completely ignore him. Harry knew for a fact it was a feat because he was aware of how hard it truly was to pretend he wasn't there. There was no escaping from him, usually, as Denny had said many-a-time.

But he needed to talk. Unfortunately, despite their rather lackluster relationship, which was mostly based on faux-civility and withheld violence, Harry felt a sense of camaraderie with Snape. Their insulting banter made Harry feel rather refreshed, especially after a day of dealing with the unending tolerance and cheer of his fellow classmates. Really, what the fuck was there to be so happy about? But, besides that, Snape was dangerously intelligent (to the point of awe), and Harry both enjoyed his acidic company and respected his mind. Snape, he supposed, was something like a friend, if that were even possible, if he wasn't cursed for thinking so.

"I admit my fault in this," Harry went on to the unresponsive man. "I'm going to tell Draco to stay out of it. I'll go to the Ministry and clear his name, even, though it will be one hell of a bribe. I might have to spend money. Money that could have been used to replace the ingredients I fucked up. But I'm prepared, so you know."

That got him some acknowledgement. Snape slammed the cauldron he had picked up and glared ferociously at him. Harry's lips twitched.

"Sexual favors?" Harry blurted, unable to keep away his grin. "I'm prepared for even that. For you and the Ministry. The entire load of them."

Snape grimaced. "I'm frightened to know what diseases you've contracted, being such a vapid prostitute," he snapped, unable to keep away an insult. He scowled at Harry's smile. "You've already involved Draco in this," Snape went on coldly. "He won't back out now."

"So going to the Ministry is the only way—"

"They're fighting _your_ war, Potter. It would be inopportune to bring up Draco's status now," he retorted rather accusingly, still sorting out his messy desk. "You know that, and you have no intention of going to them and giving up your blackmail."

"Draco has a lot on me too, Snape," Harry couldn't help but snap in frustration. "As do you."

The Potions Master shoved a drawer closed with more force than necessary. "Those are entirely different circumstances, Potter," he barked. "Draco and I are indebted to you to remain silent. You ensured our entrapment when you got me out of Azkaban and gave Draco refuge."

"I know how different they are," Harry returned, switching his weight to his other leg and gazing at the man sourly. "But I don't hold either of you to it. I haven't put a _collar_ on you or Draco, so don't make it sound like I have."

Snape gave a rare laugh, but it was tinged with an air of bitterness and hostility. Harry _hated_ that particular laugh.

"I didn't think you could get anymore moronic than you already were, Potter," Snape said churlishly. "And I meant what I said when I threw you out: I find you particularly intolerable. Since I cannot avoid dealing with you in class, I ask that you study for your exams with no further entreaties into my assistance."

The man whisked around to leave the classroom, but Harry made a sound in the back of his throat that was powerful enough to stop his retreat. "I still need your help," he said in a soft voice, almost a whisper. "Please."

Snape's back was turned, so Harry could not see his expression. He could imagine it, however. The man's mouth would be turned down in a terrible grimace, his eyes remote and unfeeling.

"I cannot help you with anything now, Potter," Snape said, tossing his head in Harry's direction. The movement reminded Harry of a dog on a leash and its futile attempt to disencumber itself. It made him sad, for some indiscernible reason. "It is high time you grew up. Or perhaps you'd rather immortalize yourself as a child with too much conceit and too little sense? Whatever you do, I won't be a part of it any longer," he said. "And don't push me to react, boy," he threw in after a second, right before Harry could speak. "There's no love lost between us."

Harry clenched his teeth. "That a threat, Snape?" he spat.

Professor Snape looked at him, then, in a way that said he was extremely unimpressed and not at all backing down from his audaciously spoken opinion. He looked at Harry as if every bad attribute he'd observed was now proven, and that no help, not even from those who loved him, would, should he need it, be available. It was an awful expression, to be sure, one full of the utmost scorn. Harry bristled.

"Who would let you live," Snape responded quietly, "after all that you've done? You have destroyed the life that the world used to covet and care for. After this, there are no paths back. You've condemned not only yourself, but many others. I won't be the one to throw you out, but someone else will."

Snape's voice dropped into a terrible whisper, like a breath between the teeth of a monster on his neck, one that was very prepared to bite for the sake of the survival of its own life. "Who would let you live?" the man repeated with a tone sad enough that Harry's entire body curled up to block the emotion out.

He left Harry standing in the silent classroom, stationary and boarded up. Like an empty palace.

.o00o.

Blaise set his silverware down with a loud clank. The sound caught the attention of his fellow Slytherins, who looked from him to the fork and knife as if he'd committed some mortal sin. Loud noises were a Gryffindor thing, after all. But the ruckus did have the desired effect. Glancing at the normally stoic Slytherin table was Harry Potter, and he met Blaise's eyes in understanding.

Shortly after pudding – consisting of cranberry tarts and hot, sugary beignets – appeared on the table, Blaise excused himself from the Great Hall without anymore brutish noises. Once he had reached the corridor outside, he crossed his arms and leaned on the wall, waiting.

Potter stepped out a few minutes later, gave him a patient look, and matched his stride as they walked towards the seventh floor.

"He's there already?" Potter asked, though the question was muffled by the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His hand was up and prepared to light it.

"He's there," Blaise nodded, eyeing the now-lit smoke. "Have you given up on every rule Hogwarts has?" he queried, and when Potter gazed blankly at him, he gestured to the cigarette. "You can't smoke here."

Potter grinned, smoke pooling out of his mouth. "I can't tell you how much I don't give a fuck," he said without heat.

They climbed another staircase. "I heard about Nott," Blaise said, unwary of bringing the subject up.

"Did you?" Potter made a noise that could have been disapproval. "I thought the Headmistress would keep that quiet. For everyone's sake. Are you very upset with me?" he asked, though it sounded as though he wouldn't care if Blaise was angry about the incident.

"Slytherins always know what happens to other Slytherins," Blaise responded, giving Potter a sideways glare. "And I don't much like Nott. He is humiliating, both to our House and to himself."

"Ouch," Potter said, smirking happily. "Cold, mate."

"I'm not the one who incapacitated a student with a gun. He'll never walk again, you know," Blaise informed him, waving a hand.

They made it to the Room of Requirement, but before Blaise could ask for the usual room, Potter reached out and stopped him.

"Why have you two been avoiding me?" Potter demanded sharply, his green eyes impossibly bright.

Very suddenly, Blaise realized that there was something different about Potter. Normally, during one of Potter's vague conversations, his expression was closed off and unfazed, no matter what they were talking about, but now he had the wild-eyed look of a man very close to instability. Had Potter been an ordinary soul, Blaise wouldn't have worried, for most let out their anger, their sorrow (if that was indeed Potter's issue), with yelling and belligerent name-calling. Potter, if he did lose control, would do so in the most detrimental way possible, and Blaise was wary of this boy. Wary of that particular expression on this particular person.

"I haven't been avoiding you," Blaise finally said cautiously. "I can't speak for Draco, however. Has he not come to you?"

"No," Potter confessed coldly, letting go of his arm. "No, he hasn't."

And then, just as suddenly, it had fled, and the old Potter returned. "Sorry." The boy grinned. "See, I thought you had a bit of an issue with me."

Despite the friendly apology, Blaise saw his demeanor and words for what they were and shuddered in alarm. "It's not a problem." He waved it off, keeping his expression indifferent as he commenced opening the room.

When they arrived inside, Draco was sitting on one of the sofas with a book in his hand and a tray of tea before him. Blaise knew his friend had stolen to the kitchens earlier for dinner, so the tea must have been a kitschy way of displaying nonchalance, especially considering the fact that Potter usually took scotch or bourbon. In fact, the perfunctory bottle had just popped into existence, as predicted. Late, as a show of casual superiority.

Blaise sat, watching Potter pour himself a glass with a smile, a tense smile. He met Draco's eyes, which were flickering with question, and nodded very slightly. _Watch out,_ he thought, and then he moved his lips to mimic the words in his head, warning Draco further. Potter finally sat, holding his drink loosely as he took a drag from his new cigarette. To show how capable he was, that his reserves were okay, Potter crossed his legs and leaned backward, staring at them expectantly. Blaise scoffed, resigned to stay out of Potter's game, and turned to Draco, who was still quite enraptured with the literature before him.

Blaise knew exactly where they stood, then, and he bit the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.

"So," he said, amusement coloring his voice.

"So?" Potter repeated, grinning again. "I was under the impression you had me here for a reason, Blaise."

"I did." Blaise cleared his throat before inhaling deeply, glad of the Screening Charm that prevented the smoke from wafting into his lungs. "Last Friday, you left the grounds."

Potter looked at him searchingly. "You sought me out on Friday?"

"Yes," he admitted. "My Uncle _Fire Called_ that night, right before dinner. The warehouses were attacked."

Potter did not seem startled or furious, as Blaise though he would be. Rather, he appeared resigned and a bit downtrodden, as if his favorite pet had been given a few more weeks to live. Potter knew who was behind it, then, Blaise acknowledged.

"Did the guard hold?" he asked, sipping his drink.

Blaise dipped his head. "It was one modified weapon against the other, so it rendered the magic obsolete."

Potter knew that, though, because he had designed the guns, and he had foreseen the chance of pitting the guns against each other. It showed that betrayal had been a likely thing in Potter's mind, thought it was still not altogether expected. The bullets had struck home, not halting in that showy way of theirs, and men had been lost, but the guard had held, as Potter had known it would.

"How many?" Potter questioned, taking a drag.

"A hundred, on our side," Blaise told him without hesitation. "Close to two on theirs. They weren't trained soldiers."

"Rahul's men, then," Potter assumed, finishing off his drink and smoke. Dragging his cigarette in the ashtray, Potter looked up at him and asked, "Your Uncle alright?"

Blaise was not surprised the boy had asked, but he was taken aback at the sincerity and concern in Potter's eyes. As far as Blaise knew, having dealt with this cold, ambiguous person, Potter had never been concerned. Not for other people. Not sincerely.

"He's fine, thanks to the men," he responded softly. "You placed more of them, three days prior to the attack. You knew it was going to happen."

"I suspected," Potter confessed. "We stole a missive from Rahul's office that mentioned meeting Frank, and we didn't think it was for a friendly nosh."

Draco put his teacup down loudly, and Blaise and Potter glanced at him briefly before continuing.

"Do you think it's likely they'll attack again?" he asked, needing to know.

"No," Potter deadpanned, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I'm going to finish this little squabble before it gets violent. Well, more than it already has."

_More violent than usual,_ Blaise speculated inwardly, giving Potter an askance shake of his head. _What friends you have, Potter._

As Blaise made to speak, he was interrupted briefly when Draco scoffed. However, he pushed on. "You realize they'll expect you to go after them. And soon," Blaise pointed out.

"It's likely a trap." Potter shrugged. He opened his mouth to say something else, but he stopped when Draco scoffed again. "Excuse me," he said to Blaise. He whipped his head around to stare at Draco with a polite frown. "Is there a problem?"

Is there a problem...?

Draco met his glare. "What issue would you like me to address first?" he returned, just as polite.

"Maybe I should leave..." Blaise hedged, rising to his feet, not really not looking to be a witness to a lovers' spat between the two incredibly unreasonable young men. Unreasonable and dangerous, surely.

"Stay," Potter snapped at him without taking his eyes off of Draco. "He chose to vie for my attention during our conversation. Let's not be any ruder than that, yes?"

Blaise sat back down and crossed his hands in his lap.

Draco scowled at Potter darkly. "What did you do to my godfather?" he asked threateningly.

"What did _I _do?" Potter repeated, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. "Your godfather is the most intolerable man I have ever met."

"That may be so," Draco said imperiously, "but he says the same of you, and your little spat made him go spare on me. I don't have time for that shite, Potter."

"It was nothing to do with me, _mate_," he responded, saying the word "mate" in a way that told Draco he _wasn't_ a mate at all. "He went off on me and said he didn't ever want to speak to me again, _truly_. If he's spreading his bad mood to friends and family, it sounds like an issue between the two of you."

Draco's stare burned into Potter. "He told me you cared for no one but yourself. He said that, given the chance for your ambitions, you would have me dead. Though my main dispute deals with my involuntary martyrdom for your cause, he also mentioned you would dispose of Blaise in the same manner. I think his issues extend past my dislike for sacrifice. He also mentioned your direct disregard for _his_ life and the world at large. I know you're a selfish prick, Potter, but I do have to draw the line at your casual indifference for my best friend's and godfather's lives."

Potter's expression after Draco's words could only be described as a cool rage. "This is about me not _caring_ enough for you?" he asked softly and cruelly.

"No," Draco said, calming in the face of Potter's anger. "I know where we stand. This is about your power, and how even your allies aren't safe from it. Severus told me about that little girl—"  
"Don't you fucking dare bring her up!" Potter shouted, flying to his feet. "You don't have any idea—you don't fucking know _anything_ about it!"

"I know enough, Potter," Draco retorted idly, with that look still on his face; it was one that said he was appeasing a small child. "I know she died for her father's _loyal_ friendship to you. I know that you tried to comfort yourself by diverting the blame away from yourself. How many people have to die before you take responsibility?"

"That's a laugh, Draco," Potter said, chuckling humorously. "What about what _you've _done? Have you blamed yourself accordingly enough?"

"I'm serving my penance," Draco pointed out, widening his arms with his palms up, "in exile. Would you rather I went to Azkaban for it?"

Potter stewed in silence.

"No," Draco whispered for him. "I'm too useful to you. Or my cock is, Potter. I'm not sure which is more important. But you don't care enough about your _tools_ to clear my name with your gold-hearted status at the Ministry. You don't consider anyone but yourself at all. Normally, I would see that as a fine quality, but where I have adapted to you, you haven't to me. I've fucked you when you wanted it. I've kept your secrets. I've risked everything to support you. I grew up, Potter. Perhaps it's time you did as well."

Blaise gave his friend a surprised glance, but he held back a smile. He wanted to applaud Draco's gall, his cut-throat logic and careful cruelty, but he didn't have the courage, considering Potter was changing tactics again. The properly chastised boy was red in the face, but it took only a moment for the color to recede, and then he was as untouched and cold as he always was.

"Thank you," he said to Draco, suddenly quite natural. "I'll take everything you've said into consideration."

_A solid __"fuck you," if I've ever heard one_, Blaise commended.

"Do more than that, Potter," Draco said, just as relaxed. "You'll have to you, you know. Because this ambivalence of whether or not you have done any wrong is dangerous, and being the selfish bastard that I am," he admitted, spreading his arms apart again, "I'm _concerned _for my safety."

Potter simply nodded, his eyes dulled, and tilted his head at Blaise before rising from his seat. He took one last drag before scratching his smoke into the ashtray and running his palms down his coat. He left without speaking, and when the door to the Room of Requirement closed, Blaise couldn't help but chuckle darkly.

"Thanks for that," he said to Draco. "I do so love watching lovers' spats. It's why I've a subscription to _Witch_ _Weekly_, you know."

"I thought you would be happy," Draco mentioned curiously, getting up and stretching. "You never thought Potter was good for me."

"I do believe my exact words were that 'he could never be domesticated,'" Blaise corrected him. "But your sordid affair is far from over, Draco."

Draco glared at him as he too rose. "How do you know that?"

Blaise met his glower. "Because you both have the potential to love each other. I'm not a professional in the discipline of love, considering my mother's dubious reputation, of course, but I do know when two people are observably suited. It's not over, Draco," Blaise affirmed, "because even though you've, in a way, told Potter it is, you won't stand fast with your own decision. He's too bloody brilliant."

Looking as though he was going to argue, Draco's leg twitched and he bit his lip before he nodded very slightly. "You're right in everything but the last part," he finally said. "It's the appeal of good sex that would bring me back."

Blaise laughed in his face. "That may be true, I have no idea and don't want to know, thank you," he confirmed, shaking his head. "But the _conviction_ still gets you. The power he has to do the impossible. My mother would call your union a complementary disaster. You'll be together forever, Draco, but your forever will be a tragedy."

Draco grinned at him wryly. "How bright and sunny you are, Blaise. But I suppose your mother _would_ know," he admitted as he made his way towards the door. Blaise followed. "You may be right about everything. _Maybe_. Despite how infuriating Potter is, he's tight and warm and parts of my anatomy _love _him so very bloody much," Draco continued, letting out a rather loud sigh as he donned the Invisibility Cloak and left the room.

Blaise groaned. "I despise being right at times. Potter makes you painfully inane," he accused.

"And he makes my ever refined and cunning friend look like a bumbling Pygmy Puff," Draco said laughingly. "I'll _keep_ Potter, just for that."

.o00o.

The pistol vibrated against the desk, steadily moving toward the edge, and Henry caught it before it toppled off. The Portkey instantly dragged him toward the caller, as he had known it would, and he waited patiently as he was flung through time and space towards an unknown destination. When he hit the expensive carpeting, he knew right away who had asked for him. He looked up at Mina and Alejandro with a true smile. He was happy they had summoned him.

"How are you?" he asked Mina. She moved towards him with an answering grin, kissing both of his cheeks rather sweetly.

"I am well," she responded as she stepped back. Alejandro came forward and grasped his hand warmly.

"As am I," he said before Henry could ask. "Please, sit down."

They moved to the proffered chairs companionably. "I would offer you a drink," Mina told him, "but Andro has sequestered my vodka tonight. He seems to think I'm a silly drunk."

Henry laughed. "I've had my share of alcohol tonight, thank you," he commented dryly. "And you _are_ a silly drunk, love."

Mina glared and they chuckled. Henry's laughter did not linger. "Tell us, how is school?" Mina began.

He did not have a problem with these people, and it was refreshing, considering how terribly he had messed up his other relationships. Henry also felt inclined to tell them the truth. They were open and naturally welcoming, which could have been more to do with their culture than anything, but Henry liked to think they were simply good-hearted individuals. People like Mina and Andro were hard to find.

"School has been—" he started, and then swallowed. "Trying, to be honest."

"What bothers you?" Alejandro asked, outwardly concerned. "You do not look as though you've gotten enough sleep."

"I haven't," Henry admitted, sighing and leaning back as he lit a cigarette. He blew out a cloud of smoke before speaking, his voice gruff when he did. "Not much, anyway. I've been having problems with certain...lovers, people I trusted to allow me some freedom. But my freedom comes at their expense, apparently. My plans come at their expense."

He paused and looked into their curious, comforting eyes. "I've heard the words _grow up _more times this month than I can stand. Am I truly so childish?" he questioned them, "And if I am as old as I'll get, because, obviously, though they advise my growing up, they don't _expect it to happen_, then am I so bad of a person?"

Mina scowled. "Simply asking those particular questions says a lot about a soul, Henry," she explained, blinking. "You are a good person, one who is able to acknowledge his mistakes."

Alejandro nodded decisively. "I have known only an evil in you that is necessary," he added.

"But _is_ any evil necessary?" Henry objected, playing the Devil's Advocate. "When did it become necessary, even?"

Alejandro seemed to find this funny. "When humanity was born, Henry. You second-guess yourself in the face of your loved ones' disturbances; it is only normal."

"But—" Henry stopped there awkwardly.

"But you have never had a true family before," Mina concluded softly. "And, if you did, you never noticed until now."

"The woes of those we love are heavier than any selfish man," Alejandro pronounced.

Henry thought about that for a time, and then nodded his head. "Yes, well," he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for telling you this. It seems irrelevant."

"If it were irrelevant," Mina argued kindly, "we wouldn't have asked. Would you like to hear unnecessary information about my family? My brother had too much the other night and decided to run through the guards' quarters without a stitch on."

Henry burst out laughing. "That not irrelevant. That's just hilarious," he said.

One of the guards laughed as well. "We weren't so frightened this time," he said, and smiled when Henry guffawed at the insinuation that Mina's brother was prone to being sloshed and in the buff.

Alejandro grinned. "Are all Novikovs drunks?" he teased.

"The best of us, my friend," Mina said proudly.

"Speaking of naked," Andro started, prompting a titter from Mina. "My niece has just turned four, and she refuses to wear clothes. We made our rounds through the town on Sunday, and she took off her dress in a fit of rage in the middle of Mass. There was much screaming."

"Paulina must have been mortified!" Mina said, doubling over. "Serves her right for being so prudish!"

"Now, Mina," Andro admonished. "My sister is a very charming woman. At times. When she was a child. Maybe."

Henry felt better. Genuinely. He watched them banter back and forth, and a part of him let go of the semblance of them being formal representatives, of him being a diplomat. Mina and Alejandro were simply people, and Henry felt as though he had done them (as well as everyone else) a disservice.

He had failed to recognize that they were human, that he was as well. Snape's words, Denny's words, _Draco's_ words carried a weight that he had refused to consider. When was the last time he had taken a few minutes to think and speak and live for something other than his own ideals and goals? The lack of perspective made him sorry that it had been so long ago. And maybe a part of growing up was realizing these things and being patient with life, because life was patient with him.

Henry had always had a healthy respect for time, but when had he gone from respecting the hours to taking advantage of them? Draco had said that Henry's loved ones were tools to him. And Henry _had_ treated them as tools. Four years ago, it wouldn't have bothered him. Ten years ago, not a thought could be spared on the subject. But now, in the wake of the shame and doubt encompassing everything he did, it meant more, this thought. He was growing up. He was human.

He needed to finish what he had started.

"Ah, to business, then," Alejandro proclaimed, still grinning. They both amusedly noticed Mina's eyes straying to the liquor cupboard. "Before our dear Miss Novikov suffers too much," he added cheerfully.

She grinned. "Please do start," Mina said, lighting a cigarette. Her mood dampened considerably as she turned to stare at Henry. "I'm afraid we don't have good news for you, my friend."

He had expected this. "I've heard about the warehouses in Nottinghamshire," he said softly. "The guards held."

Alejandro dipped his head, a pensive notch in between his eyebrows. "We are glad they did, but the distributing factory in Manhattan did not."

Henry inhaled fretfully. "Frank," he deduced, closing his eyes briefly. He lit another smoke.

"Yes," Alejandro agreed. "Civilians were killed. Fifty of them. The American government is in an uproar over it. Officials are investigating the matter, Henry. Witnesses claimed it was their own side that attacked them."

"And it was," Mina said crossly, shifting in her seat. "That Frank McAllister is fond of disunity, yes?"

"I hadn't thought he was," Henry defended himself through clenched teeth. "The men…"

"McAllister went in with four hundred of Rahul's bodies. Your men, they are all dead. I'm sorry."

"Then he's got the guns," Henry said resignedly, sitting back. "This has gone on long enough, I think."

"We thought you might say that," Mina told him with a sad smile. "But we must warn you that he will be ready for you. With Rahul's men and the extra weapons, he will be hard to kill."

Henry nodded, and rolled a shoulder. "I can't tangle with Rahul's men. If I can get to Frank and take care of him, I won't have to," he planned aloud.

"Good," Alejandro said. "Good. I suppose you'll not want to prolong the inevitable?"

"I've waited long enough," Henry said with finality, standing up. "This is a mistake that I am entirely responsible for. I apologize to you both."

Mina stood as well and clasped him close. "Don't worry so much," she smiled. "Be careful."

Alejandro took his hand and held it. "We all make mistakes, Henry," he comforted.

He gave them both a tight smile. "I make more than most, I think," he answered lowly.

"Don't worry, Brooks," Mina told him with mock sagacity, making her way over to the hidden liqueur with determined strides. "It's endearing."

Henry laughed and nodded a goodbye before grabbing up his coat and Apparating away. He would have to beg mercy from McGonagall to leave for a few days, though he planned to take care of the assault quickly. There was folly in not thinking this through, yet he still needed to be reasonably swift. He had to talk to Denny, to Draco, to Snape – to make everything right again. After he fixed this. After.

Everything would be okay, he assured himself. He had work to do.

.o00o.

It felt as though he hadn't been in New York for an age. He'd Apparated to the alley beside Alice's Restaurant, feeling the need to walk a bit before making his way to Frank's house.

Looking at the diner now seemed surreal. He hadn't been there in months, and it had been a ritual for John and him every week. One dropped for the sake of war. Henry felt like laughing, his sentimental emotions towards the place a good enough reason as any. Except John wouldn't see him, couldn't bear it, blamed him for his daughter's death, and the thought diminished any chance of even the bitterest amusement.

Henry had seen McGonagall to ask for a temporary allowance out of the school. She was meditative and acquiescent at his words. Suspicious, the Headmistress was, and Henry really couldn't blame her.

"What is so important that you feel the need to leave, Potter?" she had asked, her lips a thin, straight line. "No student in this school has ever been absent as much as you."

"There are things I need to take care of," he told her, hesitantly. "People I left behind for Hogwarts that I need to visit. There's a war going on…" he trailed off.

"My point precisely," McGonagall snapped. "It is dangerous outside of the school."

"And they're susceptible to that danger, like everyone else," he disagreed. "I won't let them fight alone."

She obviously thought that there was more to his excuses. Though perhaps bona fide, they were only a tiny part of the real picture. As sharp as she was, Henry had heeded her questions with wary half-truths, but, underneath his explanations, there was a message for McGonagall that she didn't miss.

_I'm going to go, and you won't be able to stop me. I'm sorry. It's already out of your hands.  
_

The Professor conceded defeat but not before commenting. "You're doing your education harm, Potter," she said, her voice holding disappointment for the potential wasted. For the loss of a student as apt as him.

"There's just too much that's more important," he said to her, rare sincerity in his tone. "Thank you, headmistress," he'd offered gratefully before leaving.

Though his appreciation was obviously heartfelt, he had the feeling that McGonagall was too upset and dissatisfied to accept his thanks. She had truly given up on him, in that moment, and Henry wondered at how much people around him seemed to do so.

He refused to think of it as he approached Frank's place. Henry didn't need those depressing thoughts when he had something important to accomplish. Distantly remembering a time when he didn't have to push himself so much to achieve, Henry thought that sorrow and guilt had ruined more than half of his aspirations. He held onto the hope that those dreams would continue down the path to success, once things were put right, both here and back at school.

Henry perked up visibly when he saw the white van outside of the McAllister residence. He hadn't expected it, considering how chaotic the world was at present, but then Donnelly, Monroe, and Marks would have nothing else to do but keep tabs on their favorite crime lord. The normality of it made him grin as he made his way over to the van. Henry decided not to knock, because there was a very real chance Donnelly would not let him in if he did. Sliding the door open, he jumped inside and was immediately showered in something sticky and…pink? He had only seen a glimpse of it before his eyes had shut just in time.

"Oh, fuck," he heard Monroe say, cursing for once. "I'm so sorry!"

Henry wiped the liquid out of his eyes and looked at her. She held an empty glass loosely, staring at him with wide eyes. Then she sprinted over to the other side of the van to get a roll of towels. Marks guffawed from his spinning chair in front of the computer, and Henry could see Donnelly trying very hard not to explode in laughter.

Monroe came back and dabbed at him with the paper towel. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she kept on saying, her hands forcefully trying to mop up the mess.

"What the fuck did you throw at me?" he asked bemusedly, hating the stickiness of it.

"Pink lemonade," Monroe provided, stopping her cleaning to look up at him with her eyes wide, as if asking, "Is that _okay_?"

"So this is the secret weapon of the F.B.I.? It's very effective, Monroe, thank you," he said wryly. "Go on, give me that," he added, taking the paper towels from her. "What happened to your gun?"

"It's over there," she answered, pointing to the front of the van. "We didn't expect someone to come in. I thought it might be McAllister, and we've been ordered to shoot on sight."

Henry frowned. "I'm going to ignore the fact that you thought lemonade would incapacitate Frank and ask why you've been ordered to kill him," he said, wiping down his jacket.

Donnelly rose from his chair, the perpetual cup of coffee in his hands, and glared at Henry from underneath the shade of his dark hair. "Quid pro quo," he said. "Why don't you tell us where you've been?"

"I've been at school, Donnelly," Henry reminded him. "That school that I said – to you – I would be at, before I left for that school I told you I would be at. If I recall correctly."

Unimpressed, Donnelly leaned against the back of the chair he'd recently vacated. "You said you would still be involved in this," he said, waving a hand as if it symbolized the war. "You haven't been around at all, and everything's gone to shit while you've been gone."

"What's the order on Frank?" he insisted, ignoring Donnelly's scowl.

"Shoot on sight," Donnelly said, repeating Monroe's earlier words. "Shoot to kill."

"Are you going to tell me _why_?" Henry snapped, crossing his arms. Monroe edged away from him to stand by the amused-looking Marks.

"Because the stupid fuck attacked the warehouses. The President stationed _troops_ there, ones that he'd picked individually for the job. Then he went off _personally_ and killed a bunch of civilians with dozens of witnesses running around. The American government has labeled him a terrorist," Donnelly informed him, cooling down a bit.

But then his temper was back again, and he was so red in the face that Henry worried for the man's heart. "Are you going to defend your boss, now? Cover for him like you _always_ fucking do? You don't like the order? Then _you_ convince the President he's not a terrorist. But those hundreds of dead civilians and soldiers _might _say otherwise!"

Henry shoved his hands in his pockets. "You're right. I don't like the order, and I didn't know he'd done it in person," he admitted.

"Did you—" Monroe suddenly stopped, looking nervous. "Did you tell him to do it?"

"No," Henry said shortly. "No, I didn't. And I'm giving you new orders: Don't shoot on sight."

"You can't fucking do that!" Donnelly hollered at him, slamming his coffee cup down.

"Yes, I can," Henry bit out. "Because I'm going to kill Frank myself. The hit is _mine_, Donnelly."

The F.B.I. agents started at the admission, and Monroe swallowed audibly.

"_You're _going to—" Donnelly started, and then shook his head. "I thought he was your fuck buddy?"

Henry blinked. "Frank is a traitor. He attacked John McKay in England a week ago. His daughter died."

"I don't fucking _like_ McKay," Donnelly told him, cursing terribly. "But McAllister is, by and large, the worst of the bunch. He likes to go for the people who are close with his enemies. He's known for it."

"He went for your partner, didn't he?' Henry remembered.

"Yeah," he responded, a bit quietly. "Yeah. Killed him in cold blood. He thought killing my partner would get me to back off," Donnelly said, pausing and glaring at Henry. "Didn't work."

"You want to say that you told me so," Henry assumed, nodding to Donnelly. "You warned me that Frank was more selfish than the average man, but I believed that I knew him better than you."

The agent shrugged. "You knew a part of him I never did. I'm only intimate with the bastard side of Frank McAllister. They don't call him that for nothing, kid," he confessed.

"I apologize," Henry said sincerely. "But I'll ask you again to leave Frank to me."

"When are you going after him?" Monroe asked, shuffling a bit in anxiety. "Because he hasn't been to the house in weeks. He's left, and no one on the street knows where he's gone."

Henry gave a disappointed glower. "I had planned to do it now," he said. "But I've an idea where he is, anyway. He'll be expecting me."

"I think you're the only person who would willingly walk into a trap," Marks told him cheerfully.

"I'd say it's pretty stupid," Monroe added. "But, since I threw my lemonade at you...I don't want to push my luck."

Henry couldn't help but smile at her.

"Oh, please, do you know how many heroes voluntarily walk into a trap? It's practically a trend, dying for the sake of others," Marks teased. "You're classic, Brooks. Never change."

"You're talking about fictional heroes, Marks," Monroe argued for the sake of arguing. "Not _real_ people."

"I'm real, I think," Henry cut in before Marks could continue debating the matter. "And I don't plan on dying."

He made his way out of the van, and Donnelly followed him, leaving his partner and his tech to squabble. Donnelly shut the van door as Henry turned to him expectantly.

"Should you be talking to me in broad daylight, Donnelly?" he questioned amusedly.

The agent lifted a shoulder. "You're not the terrorist. Your name has gone cold since you left. Henry Brooks is just a myth now," he said.

"I'm pleased with that, you know," Henry admitted casually. "All of my life I've wanted to be somebody, now it seems too much, too early, and, at the end of the day, I feel like getting stupid-drunk instead of basking in triumph."

"See, you have a way of fucking with me and not fucking with me; it drives me insane," Donnelly grumbled. "Your accent is thicker as well, so I only caught half of that."

He paused as Henry grinned at him wolfishly.

"Why do you keep putting money into our accounts? If I were my boss I'd fire myself. We haven't had any useful information. Haven't done much but watch McAllister." Donnelly stopped speaking for a second and shoved his hands into his pockets, mirroring Henry's pose. "And, well, you don't have to buy our silence anymore," he finished.

"Thinking yourself undeserving makes me appreciative," Henry responded, kicking at the ground. "And you've given me information on Frank, even though I've left you to sort this lot out on your own. Perhaps I'm still paying you because you're pretty constant, and I'd hate it if you weren't."

Donnelly scoffed out a laugh. "Do you ever stop being vague?"

Henry had the decency to look sheepish. "Not really," he confessed, scratching the back of his neck. "You don't think I'm some god, Donnelly; in fact, you even fucking hate me," he smiled. "It's lovely."

"I don't hate you," he objected tightly. "I don't really have a reason to."

"And yet you dislike me," Henry prodded. "I like that."

Donnelly glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "I'm straight, Brooks," he stated, and waved both of his hands in the general vicinity of his crotch. "This is off limits."

Henry laughed, truly laughed, and clapped Donnelly on the back. "Piker with your package, mate? We won't have a barren over it."

"I'm going to pretend I know exactly what you just said."

The McAllister house was empty. Frank had left everything behind, assured, obviously, that he would return to the manor once he had sufficiently bought off the order to shoot him on sight. Henry had always treated Frank's arrogance as a cute quality, but now found he was angry that the man would think that Henry would let him betray them. He was stupid to think that Henry wouldn't do everything in his power to stop his plans, no matter what. Henry had an inkling that Frank would try and persuade him to dispose of the other crime lords, the leaders of the UN, and join him in his terribly clichéd, envy-driven take-over.

Henry might have considered the idea a few years earlier, but Frank had killed Jessica. Frank had betrayed his own best friend, and Henry (in the time between then and now) had grown up. Henry had realized that taking over the world entailed more than martial power and wealth. His priorities had changed significantly, and he didn't know if it was for the better or not. In the end, it didn't really matter. Some actions, according to his own rules, were unforgivable.

Frank's office was as cluttered as always. He moved toward the piles of papers and shuffled through them. Letters from Rahul, maps of various countries and counties, blueprints for a prison of some kind – all vital clues lying underneath the protection of the wards Henry had made and destroyed like a curtain of smoke. He looked down at the drawers, opening them one by one to search for Frank's gun. But he had taken all of the weaponry he could find with him. Henry drew back, staring around the room, before moving quickly when he caught sight of the portrait.

Breathing in and out heavily, he picked it up from the floor and observed it carefully. It was an exact replica of a very familiar one in McGonagall's office.

Cursing vehemently, he made to walk out, but his eyes caught the map on the spinner by the mantel, and he moved over to pull it down forcefully. Little red dots marked the world, and Henry peered at them closely. They were in odd places Henry didn't think were significant enough to mark. Not until he found the one tack that spotted Scotland. Directly where Hogwarts was speculated to be. Henry inhaled quickly.

"I said no fucking children," he swore below his breath, absolutely incensed.

He made his way out of the house, the portrait clutched tightly in his hand. Frank was going to attack magical schools, places where there were children. Children marked for death because of power they had without their consent. Frank had once called him cold-hearted, but then he'd switched to saying Henry was stupid for not wanting to take out the next generation of Wizards and Witches.

The man was a fool and a hypocrite, and Henry was going to fucking kill him.

Donnelly was waiting for him outside. He looked surprised when Henry shoved the portrait into his hands. "If a barmy old fuck shows up in there," he said, tapping the canvas, "tell him he's a stupid fuck who doesn't know what he's doing."

Without another word, he Apparated away, leaving Donnelly to glance at the portrait, quite alarmed, before he turned to his partner. "He wants me to talk to the picture," he said to Monroe.

She shrugged. "It's probably for a good reason."

Marks poked his head out of the van. "Action heroes are always mysterious and a little crazy, Monroe," he pointed out.

"They talk to pictures, do they?" Donnelly said wearily, climbing back into the van.

"I never said that," Marks corrected officiously. "Brooks is a man like Depp in _Fear_ _and_ _Loathing_."

"He wasn't a hero!" Monroe disputed hotly. "That was an acid-induced autobiography!"

Donnelly tuned them out and looked down at the empty portrait once more. He hoped that, even though Brooks was definitely, absolutely not the average hero, he would come back from his venture intact and victorious. Heroes, after all, always seemed to prevail.

.o00o.

Mamoon was more developed than most of its country, which didn't really say much for its state. He moved towards the warehouse he knew Rahul used as his base of operations. It was padlocked, funnily enough, and Henry waved an impatient hand over it. Once the lock had fallen to the ground, he threw away his cigarette and pushed the doors open. The ground floor was empty where there should have been ammunitions equipment, and Henry edged in with a listening, cautious ear. There were no sounds inside or outside the building.

"_Homenum Revelio_," he incanted softly, and there seemed to be no one there at all. He thought that perhaps he had been wrong, that Frank and Rahul had packed up and left in their race of getting away from Henry. He had expected a trap, but perhaps Frank didn't have that in mind?

Disappointed and frustrated, Henry looked around the warehouse once more before moving towards the door. A bright flash of light hit the ground underneath his feet, and, as he brought out his pistol and spun around, he laughed sardonically in his head. A trap indeed. With his eyesight cleared and his gun held aloft, he glanced down at his feet. They suddenly felt like lead. Panic gripped him as he saw the glowing pentacle around where he stood.

He heard the chanting entirely too late.

"_Nutrere magis, tultus, ventus, ignos_, _totalus._"

Clever, using the pentacle to hold him in place, Henry thought through his fear, and he _was_ frightened. Before he could take a breath and _push_ his magic to fight it, he felt the spell come to its completion, sounding like the click of a lock, and around his neck there was a searing, unimaginable pain. Like that of a collar branding itself into his skin, his body. His magic! He hadn't expected this. Henry knew Frank had Wizards, but not one powerful enough to bind him.

Henry choked and felt the collar settle, and then it tightened around him, dragging him to his knees as he gasped painfully.

The sound of footsteps coming towards him made him look up, but, despite choking on the collar, his difficulty in breathing and the fear flooding through him from the Bind, his brain wasn't hazy enough to not recognize the man before him. A face that was older now, but a face he could never have forgotten.

_Henry turned away from the remains of Scarlett and Isaac Evenward. The ash had settled and sunk into the wood floor. Despite not having reservations in killing them, he watched where he stepped. A sniffle suddenly erupted from a door Henry hadn't noticed. He thought that he might have imagined the sound, but then a barely withheld gasp reached his ears, and he practically flew towards the closet door._

He opened it to find a little boy, the same one he'd met at Tyler's party. He was barely a year older than him, crouched in the far corner, sobbing uncontrollably.

Henry didn't speak to the boy. The picture of Scarlett kissing her son goodbye ran through his mind. Now his gun was pointed at her other son, a boy who had given up in fear and loss. Letting his gun fall to his side, Henry gazed at the boy unsurely. He didn't want to kill him. Even though, after the lad had witnessed his family die, it would likely be a mercy. The similarities of their circumstances startled Henry into backing away, and that's when the boy looked up with bright, terrified blue eyes. Asking why. And will you kill me. And please don't...

Henry moved a few more steps back and shoved his gun into his pocket. A clink startled him. He drew the button out and stared at it before flicking it towards the boy. He caught it deftly. Henry left to find Denny, the boy's face imprinted in his mind with an expression he would never, ever forget.

A little older and considerably more handsome, the little boy he had spared that day looked down at him with a decidedly different expression. Henry breathed as best as he could underneath the collar, and he clenched his fists as the magic inside of him gave one last, fleeting jolt, struggling, and then it went dormant.

Damien Evenward stepped forward and smiled.


	12. Chapter Eleven

A/n: So many reviews! Thank you all so much! You're all _outstanding! _

A Few Responses: Supreme Dark Lady Mongoose: Worth ten of Oprah, huh? I'd say Oprah ate ten of me. Ha ha! Sorry, tasteless joke with a side of cruel. But hey, I gotta get my laughs somehow, lol! I love how you love the plot. The plot, the plot, the plot. There's _nothing_ like a good plot, brewing like Jesus Justice Juice and frothing like politicians reading WikiLeaks. It's simply beautiful. And, your appreciation for it makes me want to do a handstand. I'm doing one now, no lie.

Ana: Not a dog person? Well, shit. What animal person are you? Ha, I've kinda killed the "let's joke about my cat being dead to make people feel awkward thing", so no worries. We're all sorry my cat died. Really. Harry's actually doing fine, it's later when he'll break up a bit. I wouldn't have him cracking _this_ early in the game. Glad you enjoyed the chapter!

falafal: Thank you! Here's a cliffhanger to the cliffhanger, lol!

ACT V: My darling! My stalker! You have returned to me! And just in time for my restraining order to expire! I need to go back to court, want to come with? LOL. How are you, ACT V? Thank you so much for mass reviewing, it was such a pleasant surprise to see all of those messages in my inbox, and from _you_! Which was like a triple awesome score. You do compliment me too much though, I'm getting pretty puffed up over here. Ah, but it's wonderful to have you back! And just in time...I'm hungry. Got any more of that rice left?

Dedication: to **Amazonia** for everything she has ever said, done, and thought. FE&E. Also, to **ACT V** for being just plain friggin' awesome.

Warnings for this chapter: suspense, unresolved cliffhangers, another cliffhanger, and profanity.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Eleven

Bo listened to Tenebres' and Griphook's conversation with one ear. There was a pasture full of sheep down the road, and Bo had snuck in there to get his dinner without being detected...this time. Griphook was usually able to modify memories when Bo slipped up, but he obviously preferred not to do it, if his glares were anything to go by. Bo tore into the wooly flesh of his prize, chewing madly to get the fluff out of his mouth, and looked up at his impressive father. He was masked in orange from the firelight. Griphook sat on a boulder that Bo had shoved over to him, and he spoke in quiet tones to Tenebres, who responded mentally and with small nods and shakes of his massive head.

They were talking about his human father.

Bo had been worried about Henry as of late. Though, many times, he had repeated that dragons never asked trivial questions, he found himself doing just that, even despite his natural inclination for indifference. What was wrong with his human father? Was he upset with Bo? Their fly had cheered Henry for a short time, but then the shadows had come back, and the invisible weight had pressed and pressed until it had pushed his father away again. He never had time for Bo, was always distracted, and, though Bo knew his human father did adore him, it was harder and harder to see that love as the days swept by.

He was also cross with Griphook. The goblin's avoidance of Henry was obvious to all parties concerned. His lack of counseling (which he had previously done, before the war had begun) and his disappearance when Henry needed him said more about the cold creature than Bo had imagined. Griphook's neglect made his human father sad, that much Bo could tell when he was in Henry's head. The acknowledgement of the goblin's abandonment, however small and hidden, was there for Bo to see and consequently fume about. And he didn't _understand_. Why would Griphook be mad at Henry?

His feelings on the matter were entirely unlike the other dragons' feelings and philosophies. They never got angry about these sorts of things. That was a _human _attribute. Bo, increasingly worried and frustrated, had gone to Tenebres for answers.

"Yes, yes," Tenebres had said absently. "Humans are rather funny. I am only aware of their ways because I have been among them for so long."

"But I've _always_ been with a human father! I know him fairly well, I'd like to think!" Bo protested.

"Your Henry is constrained by his questions," Tenebres explained patiently. "He isn't angry at you, Bo, if you think that. Or sad. He isn't sad because of you, my dear. He is frustrated with the many complications of war; things that wouldn't be so complicated, were he a dragon."

"_Sometimes_ I wish he _was_ a dragon," Bo admitted with a whine, hanging his head.

"Ah," Tenebres snorted before nudging his drake gently. "He would not make a very good one, I'm afraid. Out of all the humans I have met, he is perhaps the most difficult to comprehend." His dragon father had paused there thoughtfully, laying his cold belly down in a comfortable crouch. "Perhaps I will tell you a story that will help you understand, yes?"

Bo quite liked his father's stories; they were all about dragons just like him, raised as a changeling, and forged by pearls and dragon wars. The tale that Tenebres told him was not about a drake, however; it was about a human.

"There once was a human drake, with the darkest fur, beautiful like the night, and eyes the color of Chen's fire—" he began gently.

"You're talking about human father!" Bo interrupted, shouting excitedly. "Chen's fire is green, you told me. Green like life and death. I rather think they look like that stone you have, though. Yes, more like that stone. The jade one."

Tenebres heaved a great sigh and nuzzled Bo to calm him. "All right, then, with eyes the color of Chen's fire _and _precious jade."

Bo laid down as well, collapsing his wings and becoming the perfect picture of attention. "Much better. Go on," he said.

His dragon father laughed a bit. "Young things are so officious these days," he commented before continuing. "The human drake had rotten protectors, ones who hurt his soul and left him in the cold with only the fur on his head. Cast away by his protectors, the human drake had to protect himself."

Bo shuffled. "This is quite sad," he lamented softly.

"But the human drake had wonderful powers. Ling came to him one night, bright with purpose, and gave him a task."

"Oh!" Bo inched forward. "What was it? What was it!"

"Calm now, dear," Tenebres admonished. "The task was to free souls from servitude. To keep hidden Ling's great words, of how her pearls are all connected in a great string, beautiful and equal in size. 'The world has separated,' she told him, 'and through any means, even evil, they shall become one once again.'"

Before Bo could exclaim a question, Tenebres went on with a pointed look. "Ling told the human drake that his task could only be done by two means. One was by control and destruction and the other was by compassion and peace. She gave him a weapon to help him on his quest: The ability to make strings."

"To connect the pearls!" Bo concluded with a burst of excitement. "Is that how human father made a Portkey for me? One that doesn't lose it's magic?"

"Yes, indeed. Quite correct, you are," Tenebres confirmed. "The weapon is blessed. The human drake would be able to connect lost souls, both beast and man, and unify the divided."

He straightened and suddenly looked very serious. "Ling gave him this power, but of the two choices, of control and destruction or compassion and peace, the human drake chose the first. For with his new power, he had frightened his protectors, and they had cast him into the cold. The human drake had no knowledge of compassion or peace, and so he sought to unite the world through death.

"Ling had thought it would be so, so she told the creatures of the earth to listen and wait for the human drake to break their bonds from humans. Of these creatures, there were three who she asked for particular help from. One was a gold dealer, consumed by greed but important for change. The other was a dragon, the king of the dragons. And the last, _well_, the last was also a dragon – the drake of the king, in fact. The lovely Prince Bo."

Bo nodded his head, agreeing that he _was _quite lovely (everyone said so) and cried, "What is my task, dragon father? What is it! Oh, you _must _tell me!"

"I will!" Tenebres shouted just as loudly, shaking his head in irritation. "I will. Now be still. I shall tell you all of our tasks. The gold dealer was given the task of means. He and his greed would do well there. He would help to forge the weapons of war, but, most importantly, he would be the catalyst for the events in the past, the present, and the future. The dragon king's task is different. It is his purpose to guide and advise, to be reasonable when there is selfishness and tyranny. To be wise when the human drake falters.

"Now, the lovely Prince Bo's task, however, is not to precipitate or guide, but to support. To love the human drake no matter his faults, to care for him where others do not, and to remind him that there are those who will always carry him. Our tasks are united in that we must serve to protect the unprotected, to be a shield when the human drake should need us, to trigger actions to change the world. Ling bestowed us with purpose, and she bestowed many with more, but we are the human drake's hands, eyes, and heart. We cannot fail."

Bo rose and plopped down closer to his dragon father. "How does the story end?" he asked, rather quietly. "Does human father complete his task? Do we?"

Tenebres nestled him gently. "Ling lays the future open. We have the choice to change it how we want it, Bo. She has blessed us with this, you must remember. Many conclusions are foreseen, however, but the strongest decide the events to come. We must choose for ourselves how it all ends."

"I would wish for us to succeed," Bo confessed fervently. "All of us."

They had been silent for a time, listening to the wind that ran through the forest, roaring like the sea in a tempest. As if to agree. Or sabotage.

"What if we do not?" Bo had whispered, feeling that those consequences would be terrible.

"This is Ling's only chance, my dearest Bo," Tenebres told him sorrowfully. "There is no other human drake after this, no other Chosen. We _must _succeed, or Ling will release herself from the earth."

Bo shuddered in the cold of the night, thinking of the tale his dragon father had told him. When Griphook had left for the night, with promises to return early for their journey tomorrow to speak with the dragons in Egypt (who were impatiently awaiting news of the war), Bo cuddled beside Tenebres and thought.

He felt bad that he couldn't do more for his human father, for, though Bo's task was to love him, those shadows hadn't been gone for long. He remembered, suddenly, that Henry had called to him through their bond yesterday, but Bo hadn't answered because he was scared. Scared that human father was upset again and Bo _couldn't_ help him. Then again, he would know if Henry was in trouble, so, though he felt bad for not answering, he wasn't worried. Tenebres was right: Ling had gifted him with a task that he could not dream of leaving incomplete. Not because Ling had commanded him to do it, but because Bo cared for Henry with every part of himself, and he would not wish to see Henry harmed for anything in the world. Bo supposed he loved his human father more than Ling had told him to, and he would always love him. Always.

For all of their differences, Bo knew that humans and dragons were very alike in one thing: They loved until they died, and Bo treasured Henry as much if not more than Henry treasured him. Perhaps humans made a bit more sense to him now, when the ties of the pearls came into light, with family and compassion connecting them anew.

.o00o.

"_Dear father,"_

Draco had stopped there, struggling to continue. He had not proceeded from the greeting for an hour or more now. Instead, he had gazed into the fire in the Room of Requirement without really seeing it. The sofa was soft beneath him, and he hated that it was the same one the room conjured up every time. There were memories here, recollections of him and his lover enjoying the comfort of post-coital peace. Memories of them fighting, making up, fighting, and hating or loving, depending on what time it was, each other. The sofa, the fire, the room, they all reminded him of what he would rather not think about.

Potter was missing.

It had been a long week and a half, and there was neither hide nor hair of him. Draco wouldn't have worried if he didn't know the boy so well, and he knew that Harry Potter had a flaw that Draco thought was endearing. No matter his status with those he associated with, he had the tendency to always return to those he had left, acting, most times, as though nothing had happened to drive him away in the first place. It was how Potter said he was sorry. He didn't function well when he felt guilty, Draco knew that without a doubt, and, despite the lengths Potter went to offend those he loved, he loved them anyway, but he made everything infinitely more complicated with his roundabout affections.

Draco would not have been worried if Potter had come to him a day after their row, unperturbed and charming, doing another awkward dance of apology. But he had not, and so Draco hadn't had the chance to apologize either. It was unlike him. It was unlike Potter to be gone for so long.  
His godfather had agreed, and, underneath his careful apathy, it showed to those who knew him that he was concerned. The Weasleys had already raised an almighty ruckus over Potter's disappearance, going so far as to storm Severus' dungeons for answers. But he hadn't known. McGonagall didn't know, the Weasleys didn't know, and neither did Blaise or Draco. Or _Draco_.  
He, out of all of them, should be the one to know.

It was hard not to be furious with Potter, so Draco didn't try to gloss over his rage. Poor Blaise had been witness to his tantrum yesterday, when Draco had flown off the handle and cursed Potter with all of his will. If it turned out, Draco promised himself, that Potter was simply on a spontaneous holiday, or running about the world meeting with his cronies, he would kill him. Blaise had quietly excused himself from the room, aware that Draco was capable of maiming anyone in his path (to make up for Potter's _stupid_, _careless_, _moronic _disappearance) and had returned the next morning with a wary smile but good news.

Slytherin beat Gryffindor two hundred and seventy to fifty-six.

Potter was missing.

_Dear father. _

.o00o.

Arthur Weasley made sure the letter was locked in a drawer in his office. Locked up tight to prevent anyone from reading its contents. It would be havoc if _anyone_ did, but if they were Ministry personnel _especially_, then complete chaos would occur. The slightest whisper of such touchy information as was in that letter would cause the entire world to heave a great shudder just before imploding, like one of those hot zeppelin contraptions. However, Arthur was also being selfish. He wanted to deny what Ron had told him, didn't want Molly to find out and be near inconsolable, and he didn't want this to be happening. At all.

Harry was missing.

Ron had written to tell him that no one had seen the lad in just over a week. Arthur wanted to say that Harry was simply visiting his Muggle friends, perhaps a lover, and, if that were true, he would feel justified in being angry with Harry for causing undue worry. Justified and not dreadfully scared that the boy had gotten into more trouble than he could handle. He wouldn't feel this guilt either, since his suspicions had kept him from speaking with Harry the last time they'd seen each other. Unfortunately, Ron's worry was reasonable. Harry was too smart to leave and cease contact with those at Hogwarts. He would know that people would fret, not quite unnecessarily, and that the panic his vanishing would cause would be detrimental to Harry's public image. To the public in general.

But that was another matter entirely, and Arthur was quite determined not to think on it. For now.

The fireplace in his office flared green, jostling him out of his thoughts, and he rose to look at Minerva fearfully. "Everything all right?" he said a bit shakily.

"Arthur," she greeted him with a sigh. "Harry Potter is missing."

He knew that, but hearing it from her made the situation all the more distressing.

"His father is here," she continued, looking harassed. "He's threatening to kill me."

Swallowing audibly, he told Minerva he would be through as soon as possible. Arthur raced to put his paperwork away, sent a missive to Kingsley, and left through the Floo. When he emerged in the Headmistress' office, he saw Denny Brooks, waving around a gun with wild eyes, and Minerva, sitting calmly at her desk with the same expression she gave troublesome and slightly insane students in her classroom. Arthur strode out of the Floo quickly and raised both of his hands defensively when Brooks flicked his gun towards him.

"Where's my son?" Brooks snapped at him. "Where _is_ he!"

"Put the gun down, please," Arthur told him as coolly as he could. "We're _all_ worried about Harry."

"I see where Mr. Potter gets his supposedly-permissible violence from," Minerva said hotly. "I _will_ disarm you with magic, Mr. Brooks. And it _will _hurt."

Brooks laughed. "You don't have any idea what I've got in my hand, do you? Your Wizard shite won't do any good on _this_ pistol!"

She sputtered and narrowed her eyes at Brooks dangerously, as if to take him up on his challenge. Arthur stepped in smoothly, his hands still held aloft, and said, "Please, Mr. Brooks. Let's not make this anymore difficult than it already is. We don't know where Harry is, and we need your help to find him."

He watched the man look down for a moment before nodding and putting away the firearm. Minerva scowled. "_I_ told him the same thing!" she bit out tetchily.

"Aye, but I don't _like_ you," Brooks told her snidely. "No wonder Henry calls you the _catty old wench_."

McGonagall gaped at a satisfied looking Mr. Brooks with outrage. "Well, I _never_!" she screeched.

Arthur wondered how well Brooks treated the people he _liked_. Brooks didn't seem fond of them, for some reason. Though Arthur thought that perhaps he was just frightened and unwilling to show it in a proper manner. Minerva, seemingly forgetting her wand, threw one of Dumbledore's old instruments at the man's head; he fell to the floor with a loud yelp. Before she could throttle him with what looked to be a decorative mace, Arthur stepped in and took it from her. He sternly pointed Brooks to a chair, and, once they had all sat (with a few last heated glares thrown about), he sighed and put a calming hand on Harry's father's shoulder.

"When was the last time you saw Harry?" he asked gently.

"His name is _Henry_!" Brooks growled, but he relented soon after. "A week and a half ago. I talked to him then. You lot are telling me no one's seen him since?"

Arthur nodded. "My son wrote a letter to me today saying that none of his friends knew his whereabouts. No one knows," he answered with outward concern.

"We have to find him," Brooks demanded with a scowl. "This isn't like Henry at all."

McGonagall shifted in her seat with a tense sniff. "So, according to _you_, Mr_. _Brooks, this is not a common occurrence with your son? You're saying he doesn't have a past history of being flighty, yes?"

Brooks glowered at her, his lip curling a bit. "No," he barked. "Not him. He's always been good about letting us know where he is."

"We need to gather the order," Arthur suggested. "This can't get out to the press."

"I agree," Minerva said, sighing. She turned to Brooks, looking a little more tolerant of him but no less irritated. "We _will_ find him, I'll have you know. But, while we are working together, I must ask that you keep your guns holstered while you are in either _my_ presence or in the presence of the students at this school."

Brooks gave her a mocking, sarcastic stare, dipping his head forward for emphasis. "Going to confiscate it, miss?" he asked, snorting at his own imitation of a repentant school boy.

Minerva held her bristling, instead merely raising an eyebrow and saying, "If you're anything like your son, it wouldn't do much good."

.o00o.

Denny decided that, bar Henry, who at least had some _sense_, he fucking hated Wizards. First, they had dragged him to some dingy house in the middle of London, where there were gremlin heads stuck to the wall like a hunter's game trophies, a portrait that yelled obscenities at him (what the hell was a mudblood and how the hell should that offend him?), and an overall smell that not even an extravagant amount of cleaner would ever be able to get out. Second, they'd taken over trying to find his son with all of their magically inept glory. If they proceeded with their master plan of slagging each other for longer than an hour, Henry would never be found and would most likely perish in horrible ways Denny didn't want to think about. That is, if his son wasn't already dead.

All signs pointed to it. The Wizards tried to trace him, but their magic hadn't worked. Bo tried calling his father through the connection they shared, but no answer came. Denny had even given a shot at the voodoo himself. Griphook had told Denny that Henry had put a spell on him that would enable Henry to come to his aid, if he was in trouble and called. Denny had felt foolish as he'd sat down quietly to shout, well scream, in his head for his son, who still hadn't answered.

_How about fucking that.  
_

"Let's not assume Harry's dead," Kingsley (Denny thought his name was) went on saying. "If we can't track him, it may be because he's been captured by a Wizard."

"Or he could be dead," the one with the wonky eye said. Denny gritted his teeth.

"Mr. Brooks," Kingsley continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted, turning to Denny with a soft expression, "I need to know every place Harry might have gone."

Denny maintained his stony glare, despite Kingsley's gentle persona. "I thought it likely he went to visit his friend in New York, so I went there first, but no dice," he said.

He had also gone to Rahul's place, but the warehouse was left abandoned with no sign of anyone in the area. Denny knew it was very possible Henry was with the two traitors. He was unwilling, however, to come to terms with the probability that his son was gone, and that they were too late to save him.

Barely listening to the ruckus around him, Denny looked at the people who continued to promise that his boy would be found alive. The big black one seemed dependable, as did the Weasleys, who loved the lad, and the convict, Sirius something. He looked both worried enough to cry and impatient for action. Denny didn't like the one with the wonky eye, who thought himself rather brilliant and intimidating.

"He said he's already checked it out, Moody," Kingsley said to the ugly one, who had risen after Denny's latest answer. "He's Harry's dad."

"He's hiding something," Moody accused gruffly, his hands like claws on the table. "If we're going to find the boy, we need every fact, Kingsley. Not some cock-and-bull story full of half-truths."

But Denny had really had enough by then. They weren't _doing_ anything but arguing, and Denny saw why it was obviously no fucking wonder Henry had to finish their war for them. It was _no wonder_ they were winning against the Wizards now. _Fucking __useless_!

"This is fucking useless," Denny voiced his thoughts, standing up. "If you won't help me, I'll find Henry myself."

Moody lifted his hands from the table and stood taller, his eye spinning madly. "You think _you_ can find him, _Muggle_? Go ahead," he growled. "By the time you track him, he'll be dead, if he isn't already, and if you ever need the help of a Wizard after this, don't come begging _me_!"

"Listen, you _fucking barmy one-eyed cunt_," he hissed, red with rage. "You pay some fucking respect to my son! He isn't dead! Not that you fuckers are helping him! You Wizards haven't done shit while I've been here. I've had enough," he fumed, turning away and trying very, very hard not to go completely mental. "And for your goddamn information," he added, whipping about, "it's the people like you who started this bloody war between us. I have to tell you, though, _mate_, that, as a _Muggle_, I'm perfectly capable of shutting your fucking gob the next time you run your mouth about my son."

Unwisely, Moody went for him, but Kingsley shot up to grab the wand out of his hand. Everyone seemed to take that as their signal to rise up and begin shouting at one another. Denny scoffed in disgust and turned away, only to find his path blocked by the Weasleys and Sirius, standing as still as stone behind him.

"We want to help," the convict blurted out anxiously. "I want to find my godson."

Denny nodded at him, looking at the others. The man he knew as the patron of the family simply dipped his head. "Let's find him, shall we?" Arthur said, smiling sadly.

"We're in," one of the twins grinned.

"This lot won't get us anywhere," said the other.

Glad to have them, because Denny _would_ most likely needa Wizard, he took out the Portkey Henry had given him so long ago and held it out to his ragtag group of rescuers. He sighed, whether in anticipation, hope, or despair, he didn't know. "Grab on, will you?" he advised, and they were whisked away in a rush of light and sound.

.o00o.

Sirius shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They were in some sort of manor, a grand place that looked as though it hadn't been lived in for a while. The scotch in his hand was getting stale, so he placed it on the stand beside the sofa and ran his fingers across his tired eyes. So far, Denny Brooks hadn't requested any help at all, even though, upon their first steps on the grounds of the manor, Brooks had sprung into movement. He had made numerous calls in a matter of five minutes, and, judging by the short conversations, more people were joining their mission.

The parlor they had been lead to was an interesting one. Over the mantel of the fireplace, there were two Muggle guns, nailed onto a plaque and menacing looking. There were a few photos, one of a man Sirius hadn't met, and others of a little girl and a woman who was likely the man's wife. Sirius' gaze swept across the mantel, and he looked up at the glimmering weaponry, and then down at a picture he hadn't noticed before. His eyes widened and he gaped as he recognized the face in the photo.

It was Harry.

The boy couldn't have been more than ten-years-old, and he was standing beside Denny Brooks and the man from the other portraits. Harry looked happy, enormously so, and Sirius sighed as he examined that familiar-yet-not-familiar face. He was glad that James' son had found someone to take care of him, to make him happy, but a small part of Sirius was saddened by it. It should have been _him_ beside that little boy, and it seemed that the mistake he had made so many years ago would never leave him. All that he had missed because of Azkaban never seemed so real until he looked at that picture. Despair gripped him, just for a moment, and then it was gone. As he placed the photo back, he did a double take. Harry was holding one of those Muggle guns, and, upon further inspection, it looked like they all had one in their hand.

Sirius wondered at the type of parenting that would allow a ten-year-old a firearm.

"All right," came a voice, and Sirius turned around to see Denny Brooks looking weary and harassed. "This is John McKay, he'll be helping us," he introduced.

The man who came up beside Denny was pale and gaunt looking, and the unhealthy pits around his eyes told of a man who was suffering in some way. But the creases around his mouth and nose said that he wasn't always like this, and, though Sirius wondered and felt for him, he was too worried about Harry to properly care. McKay nodded to them all placidly. "Nice to meet you," he said.

Sirius was taken aback by the accent, but then he remembered that Harry had been in New York before his disappearance, so a friend who happened to be a yank wasn't that surprising, really.

"John's gotten a call from some, er, _acquaintances _of ours," Denny explained, running a hand down the back of his neck. Sirius didn't think it was his imagination, especially with the man's disdainful tone, that Denny didn't _like_ the mentioned acquaintances. "They're on their way as we speak. The dragons are out back—"

"Dragons?" Sirius interrupted. "_What _dragons?"

"Did he say dragons, George?"

"I think he did, Fred."

"No," Arthur Weasley told the boys sternly.

Denny gave them all an odd look. "Henry's dragons," he said, as if it elucidated everything. It may have, if Sirius were in a better mood. "You_know_…?"

Really, Sirius didn't know at all. He mouthed 'dragons?' to the twins, who shrugged at him, but they were wearing a conspirator's smile, which suggested to Sirius they knew more then they would tell.

He sighed and let it go. There was suddenly a clank from the kitchen, followed by the sound of numerous scattering pots and pans and a loud curse from what sounded like a man. There was another shriek from what had to be a woman. Sirius stared at the kitchen door bemusedly.

McKay was laughing as Denny went to fetch the intruders, who had no doubt just Portkeyed into the house. Sirius observed the new people closely as they, still squabbling, were lead in by Denny. The woman was an attractive brunette in a beige suit that reminded Sirius of the Muggle authorities. The man was wearing a suit as well, one that was not at all tailored to fit him, and, in plain sight, Sirius could see the gun strapped in a holster around his shoulder. They both looked rather disgruntled.

"Oh, shut up, McKay," the man snapped at John, and Sirius and the others startled again. Another American.

"More yanks?" Fred said loudly to his brother.

"More limeys?" the man shot back.

Denny huffed. "This is FBI Agents Donnelly and Monroe," he said, presenting them impatiently. "You two, this is everyone."

"What's FBI?" George asked, and his brother nodded his agreement with the question. Sirius couldn't help but give them a pained look. _Really,_ _mates, let's try not to act too ignorant, eh? Let's also not forget there's a war on, yeah?_

Though McKay and Brooks looked dreadfully amused, Donnelly didn't. "Wizards, Brooks?" he demanded of Denny angrily. "Wizards. _Really_?"

Denny shrugged. "I need all the help I can get," he told them a bit hopelessly, and then he looked just as determined and edgy as before. "I need to find my son, you lot. We're going to find him."

"You checked Rahul's warehouse?" Donnelly queried, straightening his suit.

"Empty," Denny shook his head. "You said that's where Henry said he was going last, aye?"

Donnelly nodded. "He didn't tell me much, but he was going after Frank," he added, frowning a bit.

McKay shifted beside them, and Donnelly fixed his dark gaze on him immediately. "Got something to say, McKay?" Donnelly provoked, a small turn of his mouth signaling imminent disaster. "Upset Brooks wants your boss dead?"

"You know the fucking circumstance," Denny hollered at him, before it could start. "So shut the hell up, Donnelly!"

McKay moved forward until he was nose to nose with the agent. "I'd have him rot in hell for what he did. Frank's a bastard, and now he's a dead man," he whispered, eyes bright.

"What a concept," Donnelly smirked somewhat cruelly. "Glad you've gotten your head out of your ass."

"The man's a bastard," John repeated tensely. "And so are you. But we need to get Sparky back, and we need your fucking help. So you're not a dead man yet, Donnelly. _Not yet_."

"Threaten me all you like, McKay. You and I both know I could kick your stupid ass. _Again_—"

"All right, that's enough," Denny cut them off, getting in between them. He nodded to Monroe, who took her partner by the arm and dragged him away.

"Lay off, Marshall, okay?" Monroe pleaded. When it looked as though the fighting had stopped, Denny huffed again and sat down heavily.

He glared around the room. "If any of you can tell me anything, _everything,_ you know about what happened before he vanished, I won't go nutty and shoot every last fucking one of you," he said rather calmly.

Monroe burst out laughing nervously, turning to the agape crowd. "Ha, he's joking. Funny, isn't he?" she said, nudging Donnelly, who grimaced at her comically.

"All he said was that he was going after Frank and Rahul," Donnelly repeated sourly, crossing his arms. "And the warehouse was empty, you said," he waved a hand.

"Hey!" Monroe exclaimed, shaking a finger. "What about the portrait?"

Donnelly raised his eyebrows, having apparently forgotten about it. Denny observed the motion and barked, "_What_ portrait?"

Agent Monroe fidgeted under his gaze. "Henry found a portrait in Frank's office. Said it was important, that we should hang on to it," she confessed.

"Where is it now?" Arthur asked, speaking up for the first time as he leaned forward in curiosity.

"In the truck," Monroe provided brightly. "Back in New York. We can go get it real fast, er, with… with the Portsy-thingy whatsits you gave us."

Donnelly closed his eyes and refused to look at his partner.

"Do so," Denny commanded, waving them off. Despite Donnelly's glare at being ordered around, they went back into the kitchen.

They returned with less noise than before, and Sirius saw Denny look at his watch impatiently. Fearfully. They couldn't have been gone for more than five minutes, yet the man looked ready to strangle the agents, even though they had obviously hurried. At Arthur's and Sirius' insistence, Donnelly hung the portrait on the wall and stepped back to stare at it expectantly.

Sirius recognized it instantly.

"This is a Hogwarts portrait," he said to the room at large. "This is Dumbledore's."

The placard that said Albus' name was shining in the fading light of the day. Arthur stepped forward and ran a hand down its frame. "It's a double," he said, and then his face scrunched in anger. "Albus Dumbledore!" he called quietly, assertively.

Sirius moved forward as well. "Albus, you come here right now!" he shouted.

The old man's head popped out from the side of the frame. "Arthur? Sirius? Dear me, is that you?" he gasped, not even attempting to sound surprised.

Arthur observed him carefully. "Albus, where's Harry?" he asked softly.

Dumbledore sputtered, looking properly bewildered, and said, "I had no idea he was missing, Arthur! Oh dear!"

Before Sirius could shout at him again, Denny Brooks stepped forward and stared at the portrait resolutely. "Why were you in Frank McAllister's office?" he questioned gruffly.

The old headmaster deflated at seeing Denny. The look on his face now was decidedly cold. "You must be Mr. Brooks," Albus commented idly. "I've heard quite a lot about you."

Denny lifted a shoulder. "I am," he said tightly. "How did you come into the possession of Frank McAllister?" he repeated, raising a pistol that Sirius hadn't noticed was in his hand. "I'll not ask again."

Dumbledore did not acknowledge the gun. "I was sent there, naturally. My will was clear in that regard, I am sure."

"To spy on my son? To spy on your own school?" Denny suddenly snapped, his face red with anger. "From what I heard about you before your death, I didn't think you'd take up with Frank McAllister. You are aware that he's a pivotal part of the war your people are fighting? He isn't a good guy, old man."

During his harangue, Dumbledore stared at Denny closely from over his spectacles. He even went so far as to cross his hands over his stomach in order to seem unaffected by what Denny was saying. Sirius was lost, undoubtedly, but he continued to listen.

"Let's not fool ourselves," Dumbledore responded sternly. "We all know who is directly responsible for this war. For all of this _violence _and _fear_."

Denny's shoulders stiffened. "Yeah," he breathed out, licking his lips forcefully. "But don't you think you're a traitor for joining up with McAllister? Not very Wizarding of you. But, hey, traitors have to stick together, don't they? You were happy with him, I'm sure. He's just as _fucked up _as you are."

"I am _protecting_ my school," Dumbledore said, harsher than Sirius had ever heard him. "McAllister and I are both of the opinion that Harry needs to be Collared."

Sirius inhaled. "You _Collared _him!" he burst out. "That's why we can't find him with tracking spells!"

"What does that mean…Collared?" Donnelly asked confusedly.

Arthur was the one who answered, but he didn't look at any of them. He was staring at Dumbledore. "It means—" he cleared his throat. "It means that Harry's magic was forced into dormancy. They essentially put a collar on his magic."

Dumbledore shifted. "If you knew _why_ I did it, Arthur, you would not find fault in me for doing it," he defended himself vehemently.

"I know what you know!" Arthur yelled at him, quite unlike his usual self. He blinked and backed down, surprised at himself for being so upset. "I don't agree, Albus. It could kill him."

Sirius clenched his teeth. "Who did it?" he nearly shouted. "Who preformed the spell? You're dead, and we know of no one who has enough power to do it. _Who_ _did_ _it_?"

Dumbledore was silent.

"Fucking tell us!" Sirius gave up on control, bellowing at the portrait.

"I did it for my school, for the children," Albus said, visibly shaken. "McAllister promised to keep Hogwarts a sanctuary for the life of Harry Potter. I did what I had to do, Sirius."

"_Give him back_," Denny suddenly choked, looking horrible. "You tell me where he is. You _give him back to me_."

"This is some _mission_ of yours, isn't it," Sirius said, shaking his head. "Some 'greater good' muck? We don't care! Tell us where he is!"

Denny raised his gun.

"You can't kill the dead, Mr. Brooks," Dumbledore told him, unconcerned. "But I'll tell you what you want to know. The powerful young man I taught to Collar Harry is a boy who lost his family, very long ago. His name is Damien. He was quite adamant that he master the spell, that _he _be the one to put Harry down," Dumbledore confessed. "If you knew what I knew, my words wouldn't seem so cruel."

Sirius watched Brooks carefully; he seemed to be struggling to remain on his feet in the aftermath of Dumbledore's words. "No. _You didn't_," Denny breathed, speaking more to himself than anyone else. "You let him live, Hen? _Why_?"

"An act of mercy," Dumbledore said sadly. "The boy Harry did not kill is also a Wizard. A very powerful one. A very _determined _one."

"Evenward," Denny muttered, making it sound more like a curse than anything else. "Damien Evenward."

"But he's dead!" Donnelly shouted, looking from Dumbledore to Denny and back. "You and your son killed the entire fucking family six years ago!"

"He let him live," Denny said, looking distraught. "_Fuck_, Henry. God…"

"They're at the manor, Den," McKay told him, putting a hand on his arm. "They'll be there," he said, anxious because, despite the horrible news, they had gotten their information.

The two men shared a look, hope flaring briefly, before they made to leave in a gust of movement that inspired everyone else to move with them. Sirius made for the door as well.

"You're too late!" Dumbledore hollered as they walked away from him, and the room went silent. "He's gone," he said to Denny. "He's _gone_ now."

Denny Brooks turned, his arm still held by a shaking McKay, and glared at Dumbledore so fiercely it made Sirius' hair stand on end. He cast a glance at the twins, who likewise looked wary in the face of the man's expression. Harry's dad was not someone to get on the wrong side of, that was for sure, and Dumbledore had done exactly that.

"If he's gone," Denny said to Dumbledore, his gaze vivid with madness and fury. He tipped his gun in the portrait's direction. "Then I'll find a way to kill the dead. I promise you."

.o00o.

"Damien Evenward…" "At the manor…" "You're too late…"

Bo listened outside of the window, shuddering as the night came up and brought the cold. He turned his head in despair and glanced at the moon dazzling above him.

_He isn't gone_, Bo denied. _I would _know _if he were!_

Before Denny and his team of rescuers could leave, Bo took off into the darkened sky and followed the moon and his connection to his human father. Bo was going after Henry, to save him, because Henry was still alive.

* * *

Damien didn't look up from the button in his hand for some time. It looked old, and it had a groove in the shape of teeth marks where perhaps someone had bit it, had kept biting it, thinking it might've remarkably turned to gold. He felt his heart slow and the edges of his eyes burn and turn to darkness so that the only things he could see were the swirls inside that button. Churning.

He felt like someone had opened him up, torn out all of the stitches and zippers and buttons in his body so that he couldn't be closed back together. He curled his fingers around that teeth-ridden thing and felt power hum through his hands.

Damien got up slowly and left the closet he had been sitting in for hours. His legs felt stiff, and he was reminded of the animal show he and his brother had been watching just yesterday, where the baby horse was trying to walk. Wobbly, his new legs shook and he had to hold on to the wall with claw-like fingers, digging into the flower-print wallpaper and grinding his teeth, the button digging into his other hand instead of his uncut nails. A vice his parents had hated. Finally, he made himself look up and acknowledge the ashy remains of his family.

Something snapped inside him, then, the dam that had been holding his body with its open wounds together crumbled, and the realization crashed over his head. He broke and gasped as he stumbled to the place they were, his footsteps marking their last resting place in a kind of dance that was so unlike the steps of the waltz his mother had been forcing him to learn. Never again would he have to hold an old woman's waist and lead her around this very same floor, expensive shoes clacking on the tile. His side twitched in the ghostly remembrance of the Madam's pinches when he got a step wrong. His toes protested.

"No. No no!" he yelled, kicking at the ash, inhaling it. His eyes itched with their dryness and he kneeled down and slammed at the tile with the side of his locked fists, making tiny foot prints without toes in his mother's and brother's skin and bones. An unbalanced petulance. "Why!" he screamed, his body humming, his magic slipping slowly out of him like so many snakes. He tore apart the room. Destroyed the pictures, curled up the horribly-repeating garden wallpaper away from the painted wall underneath it. The windows crashed inwards and flew towards him as he laid down on top of their opened graves and slept through the rest of his funeral.

*.*.*

When he woke up everything was gone except the button still in his hands. He was in a gray place that he would always remember as the place where he waited and where his magic grew. He dreamed of green and a woman's screams that sometimes sounded like triumph. Damien told himself that was his mom, exulting in the last come-uppance over the boy who killed her. Because Damien had survived, and she had known it. He remembered her last expression. Because Damien was going to get him back for what he did. The green-eyed boy. Green-Eyes.

Damien slept and woke and worked with the button around his neck, holding him together. The thread holes were looped through with an extra-thin gold chain that looked like one his mother had always worn.

*.*.*

Damien doesn't remember the circumstances for how he came about to learn the name of the green-eyed boy. But he remembers the name extra sharply to make up for the way the context of the unveiling blurred like static. White noise that didn't matter.

Henry Brooks. Such an unassuming name. Nothing to fit the grandness that was Damien Evenward.

And he would have to bid his time to get him. He needed to gain more power. His blue eyes flickered several times in the broken bathroom mirror, and he smiled as he reached back in the small room and flicked the light switch off.

"You're mine," he whispered in the dark.

*.*.*

A war with Wizards and Brooks was cracking, Damien could see that already. 'Time to make yourself visible, old boy,' Damien thought and felt the beat of his heart increase, a rhythm ricocheting off the warm, golden chain. Felt power in his fingertips. He could do a much better job than Green-Eyes ever could.

His two latest prisoners shifted behind him, and he turned around and grinned at them. "Ah, practice," he said aloud. "It makes perfect, after all."

He moved closer to perfection as they screamed.

*.*.*

To: Mr. Damien Evenward

From: Arif Rahul

I have heard rumors of your activities. We have a mutual interest in this same sport. I would like to meet with you over tea to discuss a wager. A small bet.

*.*.*

Hello Mr. Rahul,

I have been waiting. I know where you live. I will come by the day after you receive this letter.

Please don't make the tea too heavy. I usually don't consume caffeine.

The DE

*.*.*

He kept her in the closet that he had been hiding in when Brooks had found him. It was small enough for a child's bed, and he could watch her in the night with the camera he had installed in there, twisting and turning for a comfortable position. Bathed in green infrared. It was her at her most natural.

He did not know her name.

He called her Green because her eyes were green – but not as green as Brooks' – and she had come for him first out of envy of this haunted house he lived in.

When he felt the urge, he would drag her out and fuck her in the empty dining hall. Away from their remains, Damien and the girl would coil and slither in the dust of the room where no one ever ate.

He ordered her to keep her eyes open.

Sometimes she didn't listen. She wouldn't live for much longer.

*.*.*

Sometimes he woke up and stared at the hazy outlines in his room, kept paused at around the time that he broke open. Dormant trains plastered around the top edges of the walls. White clouds painted in the ceiling. The rest of it a gaudy blue that was oftentimes hard to look at. Height measurements on the door marked him shorter than he was for all of time. But he couldn't see those from his position under covers quilted with the universe.

He wondered if it was all a dream, and Henry Brooks was just a part of a bad story that he'd read, where only the impression of him, the memory of there having even been a book at all that he'd known, was instilled purely in his subconscious. Always lingering and nagging at him to remember it. Remember him.

He would clutch at his throat, but, just as he was about to tell himself that his mother would be in at any moment, exasperatedly telling him to get up, where he would forget about this story until the next time he was half-asleep, he'd feel the button and the mark it had made at night, digging into his sternum. He would push on the groove in his skin and sit up quickly, look at his floor riddled with books and weapons that he'd decidedly not had as a kid.

*.*.*

Frank McAllister and Arif Rahul were good people. People who understood.

He stared at the girl who had brought them tea. At her pale green eyes. She glanced at Rahul quickly – he was busy talking to McAllister – glanced back at him just as quick and threw her eyes down. But he could see her blush against the tan skin and he smiled.

"Your daughter?' he interruptedly asked Rahul after her quickly retreating back.

"Why?" Rahul asked, his voice sinking down a pitch. Damien knew to when to stop, so he didn't bother inquiring if her eye color was real or not. There was nothing to be done about it anyway.

He took a sip of his tea instead. "Just wanted to compliment her on the tea," he said, lifting the cup from the saucer in salute. Rahul thinned his lips but passed the gold-tipped china to McAllister instead of making any more comments. McAllister nodded at him, smiling with only one side of his mouth.

They were good people.

*.*.*

'The little girl was quite cute,' Damien thought as he came up on her in the orchard. Then she screamed, and he spelled her voice mute. She looked up at him with big, innocent eyes, and he remembered looking like that once, feeling like that.

She would feel better. When she was dead. He wished, sometimes, that someone had given him that small mercy back then. She ran, stumbling and trying to make noise – good girl – and he ran after her, burning and shooting everything and her in his wake.

He heard them following.

McAllister grabbed his shoulder afterwards and thanked him for going above and beyond. Told him that he had done more than what they had wanted.

He could hear his mother screaming in his dreams. And he felt justified at the burning of a little part of Brooks' existence.

In his dreams, he saw that dragon.

*.*.*

It was a perfectly designed trap. The people who Brooks was expecting would not be there. No one would be there. Only he would. It would be stunning.

He had read and read and read until he found the right things that he would need.

And there he was, trapped so beautifully. Damien pulled at the magical collar, feeling more than ever the sharpness of the golden chain, the weight of the fool's gold button, around his own neck.

Finally. Finally, he was here.

He saw the green eyes recognize him, how they blurred in memory and sharpened when they came back to the present.

No one had had eyes like Green-Eyes. He had looked.

And all those he had found were now dead.

Damien looked down at Brooks, felt his face twisting into some expression he had never worn before but always knew that he'd someday don.

Damien knew when he had the upper hand. He was able to wait. But, finally, it was time.

Damien Evenward stepped forward and smiled.

A/N: **denotes Amazonia's wonderful fanfiction of my fanfiction. Which means, the writing after the line break is not me. It's my beautiful, wonderful, amazing friend knowing a character I haven't yet introduced _inside_ and _out_. I have never read such an excellent interpretation of _anyone_, much less a fictional character I produced. She was _spot on_, and in our conversations I've barely touched on Damien. So, thank her for this stupendous add-in and background into DE's personality. I couldn't have done it as well as her, and I hope I do it justice in the next installment. Xena, you're simply _remarkable_.


	13. Chapter Twelve

A/n: I got one of those electronic cigarettes. They're supposed to cut back on the smokes until you quit. It's not fucking working. I want a goddamn red. Who invented this shit, anyway? Liberals who don't smoke? Fuckers. Yeah, sorry, but this chapter really bites.

A Few Responses: Ana: a white tiger, huh? My mother's old neighbors had a tiger in their garage, until one day it went batshit and chewed a little girls face off. I don't like tigers. They're fucking vicious. No offense. You would be a nice tiger, I'm sure. Ah, Dumbledore's just doing what he thinks is right. Poor old crazy. Love you, Ana!

Supreme Dark Lady Moongoose: I'm just gonna call you SDLM from now on. I like acronyms! Heh. Bo is cute, isn't he? So cute. We all just love him. Heh. I'm blushing. Thanks so much for all the wonderful words. I can't do a handstand and type though. Shit. I tried? I can do a handstand? I can type? But not together. Do I get a participation ribbon? Expert love to you!

Dedication: to **Amazonia** for helping me out with my minor (major) freak out this week. It's funny _now_, mon cher. And LOL, "what the fornication under the consent of the king".

To Readers from Amazonia: I don't think anyone reads anyone else's reviews, but maybe they do. So, if you're reading this and you referenced me in your review, then THANK YOU! I appreciate (and am completely and totally baffled-yet-surprised by!) the amount of reviews that I have gotten on here. I was saying the other day that PCP has some of the best reviewers that I've ever seen for fanfiction, and I still agree with my statement. I want to review you guys' reviews by telling you to keep up the awesome reviewing work you're doing for her! She deserves it, right? :D (I added that part because I do deserve it, LOL. Must needs opinions and insights!)

Warnings for this chapter: gore, _explicit torture_, violence, disturbing imagery, angst, new OC, language, and CD. Serious CD.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Twelve

He woke without remembering ever having gone to sleep. A familiar face flashed in his foggy mind, and he thought it had probably been from a dream, one that would end when he managed to drag his eyelids open and find himself not in the presence of ghosts. But the dream wasn't a dream, and, when he managed to blink into wakefulness, he noticed he was not in his rooms. Dizziness beset him and he breathed in through his nose and clenched his eyes shut. When it abated, he focused on the solemn fact that his surroundings were not typical. And, like the dream, the world around him was nowhere and somewhere all at once.

Henry vaguely recognized the place he was in. After what seemed an age of glancing about and trying to remember, he finally understood where he was. The room where he had killed Scarlett and Isaac Evenward looked the same, was furnished the same, but a layer of dust had settled on the lavish interior. His eyes focused on the grimy, almost archaic, bed he was laying on. He had thought that, ever since the massacre, Evenward Manor had been under government ownership. It looked like it hadn't been touched, or, at least, this room hadn't, not in a very long while. Although, it _was_ possible that _someone_ had remained to make sure that _this _room was stationary in time.

He supposed it had to have been Damien. That would mean the government had to have known that he was alive. Or some other faction could have purchased the manor, condoning the capture and killing of Henry Brooks. But that was insane. Was _he _insane?

_This isn't a dream?  
_

It couldn't have been, because he felt real and terrified. Henry tried to move his head, but his body felt frozen solid; though he could feel everything still, for he wasn't numb. There were ties around his wrists that ended at the bed, where they were attached. Matching bands were around his ankles, to hold down his legs. His neck was stiff, probably from having passed out and slept at an odd angle. The pulsing in his arm told him that Damien had likely injected something there, that and the lingering vertigo. Of the various discomforts, what Henry felt the most was the collar. The restricted magic deep within him that bubbled and simmered like magma at the base of a volcano. Like an angry Titan, locked away beneath the world and screaming. It threatened to consume him, to over-pressurize and explode, to _burn_ him from the inside out.

He took another stuttering breath and closed his eyes. Footsteps echoed across the room, sharp and precise like a metronome. A door closed, the tapping resumed, and then a voice broke the tempest of fear in Henry's head.

"You know where you are, don't you?" Damien said, halting in front of where he lay prone. "Of course you do. You have a good memory," he finished instead.

The boy, for he was only a year or so older than Henry, had a cigar in his mouth that looked as though it had been rubbed out a few times. It seemed awkward and bizarre for Damien to have it. Regardless, it was lit up again, and, if Henry were himself, he would have grimaced at the overwhelmingly sweet aroma. Damien's eyes, blue and bright, scrunched up as he smiled down at him.

"I've always liked that phrase," he chatted. "'No cigar,' you know. I've heard it quite a bit. They say to me, 'bad luck, mate. No cigar,' and I think, 'well, I didn't much want one anyway.'" He tapped the end briskly. "But, you know, I see the appeal of it, when you've accomplished something rather extraordinary. That's when 'no cigar' is rather apropos. And lighting one, I'll have you know, is a lot like a _well-deserved _congratulations."

When Henry remained silent, Damien tilted his head in concern and leaned forward. "You can talk, you know," he said gently. "I've injected you with barbiturates. A heavy dose that'll loosen your muscles enough to cause paralysis, but won't kill you. And _yes,_ I know what I'm doing. I only killed one. So you can talk, if you want to. Go ahead… _talk_," he admonished, pointing the cigar at Henry impatiently.

"Fuck you," Henry slurred, but the sentiment was clear.

Damien laughed and pushed his long hair out his face as he gazed at Henry with joy. "You always know how to make me laugh," he stated grandly before pushing a chair beside Henry's bed. He collapsed into it with a happy sigh, lifting up his feet so that they rested on the edge of the mattress. "To business, then, shall we?"

Henry rolled his eyes, though it didn't look as controlled as he'd wanted it to. "Let me take a wild fucking guess," he said, a bit steadier than before. "You want _revenge_, right?"

"More than that," Damien corrected casually, crossing his ankles and his arms. "I suppose you're wondering how I've got on since that day. I think _you_ assumed I'd disappeared, likely to wallow away after the murder of my family and eventually put a bullet through my brain because the pain was_ just too much_. Don't ever assume anything, Henry. It makes you look like a fool."

He took a drag of his cigar. "I was trained by the very best. Britain's sector of Hit Wizards is rather confidential, and, with the promise that my house would be returned to me, and the surety that I would be able to keep you, I was happy to join their ranks. What's news with me, what's news with you, eh?"

During Damien's informational diatribe, Henry had managed to shake off the effects of the drugs, somewhat. He clenched his teeth and said, "Hit Wizards are obsolete. I destroyed them a year ago."

Damien listened to him intently, but then he snorted. "Not Britain's bunch, monsieur," he responded, shaking a finger. "The Americans yes, but then they were always girlies when it came to fighting."

Henry blinked. "That's how Frank was able to get passed the wards. The Hit Wizards are on his side," he concluded, sounding a bit pissy, even to his own ears.

Nodding placidly, Damien lifted a shoulder. "What would you have them do? The war is lost for Wizards, so they put their lot in with Frank," Damien told him, and then he paused and leaned forward. "You might be wondering how this happened without you catching on, and I shouldn't tell you, but I want to, so I will. Tell you, that is."

Damien's eyes rolled back into his head in apparent delight as he gesticulated. "_You_ were played _beautifully_," he crowed.

Sitting back with an air of superb gloating, Damien puffed on his cigar and grinned. "Frank has been leading you on from the start, darling. He put the idea in your fickle father's head to go to New York. He observed your games with him. In fact, he played them, too. Always the subdued man with you, Hen. Always ready and willing."

"Don't call me Hen," he managed to snap, his face hot.

Damien blinked. "It suggests a familiarity we don't have, I'm guessing," he said casually. "Frankie always had the upper hand, Hen. He heard about the guns from his contacts – one of whom you killed – and planned for war. Frank has unhealthy obsession with war, I'll tell you. And you gave him the guns, Hen. You made him a leader. He played the game better than you did."

Henry squeezed his eyes shut and briefly thought about Fontainebleau. "Frank didn't want to participate," he muttered, knowing it was a lie and hating himself for not seeing it.

"More games," Damien told him. "Games, games, Hen. You're asking, inside that lovely head of yours, why would Frankie want a war, if indeed that is what he wants? And why with Wizards? I'll tell you, so make sure you're listening."

"I'm listening," he bit out.

"Good. It's rather simple. Frank had a family long before you were around. A wife, an unborn child. You don't care much for origins, Henry, and it's one of your faults. Well, the origins of individuals, I should say. You look at the big picture," he said, widening his arms grandly before shortening their length until he pinched two fingers together.

"But this one is very small. Frankie got on the wrong side of the Mercenaries Guild. Imagine this: young Frank McAllister, born in Brooklyn and smothered in money-crime for his entire life. Clean and ordinary with his pregnant wife, a sweet thing altogether. But crime calls to Frankie when his apartment is ramshackled and his wife threatens to leave him. So, young Frankie gets into his father's business – a derelict drug ring fit for slumdogs and addicts. The money is plentiful, but, of course, not fantastic. Richard McAllister, Frankie's father, is a master of the ridiculous, and also a terrible sneak thief. When the Mercenaries Guild comes to kill Frankie's poor father, after he double-crossed them, Frankie does the job for them. And for one reason. Can you guess?"

Despite Damien's intense stare, Henry remained silent. "Power," he answered with a smile. "Power and the ability to care for his family. So Frank joins the ranks of the Mercenaries Guild, but I'll have you know that he was a victim of some very unfortunate luck. Around this time, the new Ammon came into power. Victor Massimiliano. He was an unprecedented prick, to tell the truth, and you know he was. He shot you."

Here Damien looked rather angry on Henry's behalf. Henry scoffed, and Damien startled at the noise.

"Frank was a number to him. Victor decided to...downsize, I suppose you could say. Too many recruited, too many knowing. And here enters your father," he said. "My god, Denny Brooks. The paragon of a perfect hit man. Denny bloody Brooks."

Henry wanted to scream at him to not mention his father, to not even speak of him because Damien wasn't worthy enough to do so. But he had so little energy, and he wanted Damien to continue, no matter how painfully real the information.

"They met on a hit, of course, and Denny was Denny, and Frank found he liked him. When the list came out, of those put to death for knowing, for being useless...Denny rushed to Frank to warn him. Shortly thereafter, your father left the ranks due to moral disputes—" he paused and waved a hand as if even the thought of a moral argument disgusted him. "Frank tried to protect his family, but it was too little too late, I'm afraid. They were killed. From that point on, Frank has hated three things: The Guild, the Wizards who killed his wife and unborn child, and your father."

He had been watching Damien tick of the names on his fingers. "Denny tried to help him," he snarled.

"Denny was too late," Damien retorted. "To get to Denny, Frank would have to deal with the Mercenaries Guild, who set Denny up in prison and kept him there. Frank didn't want him out until he had successfully swayed you with his charms. His careful submission."

"You're forgetting that I always treated Frank like my boss," Henry argued. "He treated me like a dog at times, in return."

"He treated you how you wanted to be treated," Damien said sagely, suddenly leaning forward to brush Henry's hair out of his face. "Now, onward. After your glorious reunion with your father, Frank got your ex out of jail, a one Mr. Francis Gabriel, and set him on John McKay in an attempt to kill Denny, which was really a nudge towards getting rid of the Guild. You doing his dirty work was so much easier, after all—"

"Stop," Henry cut him off, shifting uncomfortably. "Just stop. I get it. He made a deal with you to get rid of me to hurt Denny, and I'm guessing Dumbledore's portrait was left so he would find me. But it'll be too late, which will follow the same theme of Denny being too late to warn Frank. Plus, I'm out of the war, and it's Frank's call now. It's his. I get it, all right?"

Damien scowled. "I had a good flow going, Hen. My dramatic revelations were Oscar-worthy. You're a killjoy, you know," he said. "Frank plans to dispose of Denny when he comes flying to your rescue."

"Denny's smarter than that," Henry said. "He won't walk into a trap."

Throwing his head back, Damien laughed and slapped his thigh. "Like you, you mean?" he guffawed. "What's funny is all you people think you're so goddamn smart. What's next, clever clogs?"

Damien's snickering was more disturbing than silly, as it ought to have been. "He'll come, Henry," he continued. "He'll come because you're his weakness, and you're his son. He'll walk into a trap for the one that he loves. And it's so purely human, so wonderfully innate. It's positively tragic."

"I should have killed you that day."

Damien sighed and shrugged. "Perhaps you should have, but we can't change the past, Hen. Well, most people can't. You may be able to, because impossible doesn't mean anything to you. I hate that part of you, by the way. But you're constrained by morality, which I find ironic, don't you?"

"You're a son of a bitch."

"Magic usually has limits, so I think it's safe to say you can't change anything," Damien went on.

As handsome as Damien Evenward was, there was a terribleness about him that reminded Henry of shadows. Of ice. Of the streets he knew he should stay away from, no matter what gun or what wand he had in his pocket. Here was a man who had just enough reason to be dangerous, just enough of that unhinged passion to scare his adversaries.

Damien Evenward had lived because Henry hadn't wanted to kill him, and he had grown up to become a man that Henry was truly frightened of. He swore to himself long ago that he wouldn't be afraid of any man, but Damien was everything he had ever been afraid to know. He was filled with recklessness, revenge, remorse, talent, cleverness, and the one thing that inspired any human to hurt others: A love of blood. The destruction of all the connections that held together his humanity. What Henry found in Damien was that he had no one to blame but himself for the person beside him. The person with the keys to his collar.

And the mirror of his own heart with less integrity.

"So," Damien was saying, and Henry pulled himself out of the fog of his own mind. "I've had quite a long time to think about you," he continued, turning his blue eyes on Henry. A look of intimacy, triumph, and anticipation was there. "Here's how we'll go about it, and it will be hard, darling, I won't lie to you. I know every way to humiliate you. I want to humiliate you. I want you to think."

Henry gave a short bark of laughter. "Going to take advantage of me, are you? Shove your cock somewhere so you'll feel better about yourself?"

Damien frowned. "That was cruel," he said. "I think I love you. But alas and allay, I have no intention of fucking you, though I dream of it quite a bit." He smiled and abruptly moved forward until he was directly in front of Henry's face. "Rape wouldn't humiliate you. I know you. There's power in me wanting you enough to take it forcefully, but you'd jump on it, darling. You're as bad as I am. I want you, my love, to be completely powerless." Damien breathed in Henry face and whispered, "I will kiss you, though."

He did so, and Henry remained motionless through it. Damien kissed him sweetly and softly. A lover's kiss that burned through him like a sudden, swift freeze. He pulled away and smiled, and Henry's sight was filled with blue. "I'll kiss you a lot, Hen. You're the kind of boy that needs it frequently. Does me kissing you hurt? Do you wish I was someone else?"

Sitting back once more, Damien shook his head happily and said, "Here's what I figure, love." He laced their fingers together. "You've taken some things from me that I feel justified to take back."

He tapped one of Henry's fingers. "One, my family. In front of me. Without the mercy and kindness you showed me by letting me live. Which, you know, probably wasn't a kindness at all. To you."

Damien rubbed his pinky. "Two," he said loudly. "My chance at being someone better. You made me who I am today. Let's not beat around the bush. I like that person, too," he grinned with a wink.

"Three," he whispered, lifting up his trigger finger. "My frame of mind. You see, Henry, I've been completely possessed by your death for years. And your eyes." He met them and held them. "Green like too-hot fire, burning through me and melting away all that makes me desperate and melancholy. My comfort in times of strife. Green eyes and death are all I've thought about since the day you came into this room and took everything away from me."

He moved quickly and kissed Henry again. It was deep, like the touch before sex. The finger was lifted higher, away from its brothers. "This is the trigger finger, isn't it?" Damien breathed into his mouth. "This is the one that pulled the trigger, that held the gun that killed them."

He moved his hand to Henry's wrist and grasped it tightly. There was a shuffling from beside the bed, and then the whir of a machine. Henry looked about for the source of the noise, and the saw was in his line of sight, too close to his body and purring. "I could use magic," Damien mentioned idly. "But this seems so much more degrading."

Damien raised Henry's hand and plucked the finger up. "If you can figure a way you can shoot a gun after this," he said, smiling softly. "Be sure to tell me, darling, so I can cut that off, too."

As the saw began to sever his finger, stinging until it scorched, scorching until it grew thick with agony, Henry's body tensed and his neck arched as he screamed.

.o00o.

Daydreaming. He wasn't dreaming because he wasn't asleep. The memory came uninvited into his mind, floating like a great storm on the horizon. Halting everything in time as if it didn't exist. The roaring noise of wind and fire, singing an orison as he stood beneath the tumult. Pain made him weak, but his mind remained to recall this one true thing. A vision from long ago that brought about everything that he now held dear. And where he inhaled the smell of blood and agony from the real world, in his dreams he smelled only fire and truth. Here, nothing could touch him.

He remembered.

_"Harry?"_

He was frightened. He was somewhere he didn't recognize. It was an open field, full of what looked to be wheat and wild grass. The sky was dark to the left and bright to the right. It seemed as though a storm was on its way, but Harry couldn't see any clouds, and it was abnormally hot. Beneath his bare feet, the grass tickled his toes, and he breathed in the clean, heady air with a wince. Where was his cupboard? The shadows before him were odd looking. It was as if the world around him was painted, and the artist had spilled a splotch of black right in the middle of the piece. It fluctuated up and down, in a sort of strange dance.

"Did you ever want a family, Henry?" Damien was speaking to him, but his voice was far away. Damien was intruding, and he was unwelcome in his dreams or his memories.

"I did once," Damien went on, and Henry had no choice but to wake up. He opened his eyes and hissed in pain, before staring at Damien closely. He _hurt_. "Before all this started," he said, waving a hand at Henry as if it explained _all this_. "I wanted three children, a beautiful wife, like my mother, and the legacy my father would leave me. That's what I wanted, Hen."

Henry panted, struggling to breathe as Damien ran a hand down his face. "Oh, I know Isaac was his heir, and so he would've gotten the manor and most of our inheritance, of course. I was always the second son, darling, you know? Always second best."

Damien rose and slipped a penknife from the table beside the bed before sitting down once more and polishing the shank with his shirt. "It wasn't until recently that I realized I could never have a family. I realized, Henry, that a man like the one I am should never raise a child. Despite my views of treating my offspring fairly, of never making my second son a _second son_, I knew I wouldn't be a good father. Perhaps the blow of this revelation wouldn't have been so hard to bear, if I'd had my mother and father, and my brother, of course. But then, I imagine those were different circumstances that would have allowed me to father children anyway. But, I could have perhaps loved more. And one should _always _love more."

He suddenly moved forward and stripped away Henry's jeans. It was violent and awkward and awful, and Henry paled and choked. They were stained with blood and tattered due to his leg already, and, though they tore away like pieces of wet parchment, Henry's entire body quaked in denial. He kicked out, feeling the muscles in his re-grown leg pulse in terrible agony. Like Prometheus, in every way possible, the wounds and cuts and missing things grew back to be cut off again. And Damien had enjoyed every moment of it. Like birds caught, Damien held down his legs and tied them. He was cold, naked from the waist down, and still struggling despite the futility of it.

"Hush, love," Damien told him, strapping him in. "This will only hurt for a moment, I _promise._"

_I promise, I promise, I promise.  
_

Cold metal was in a place where cold metal should _not_ be. The tip of the knife slithered down his crotch like ice. Henry's breath caught and shuddered.

"Did you?" Damien asked him with a pensive tilt of his head. "Did you want a family? A family of your own blood? A part of you to live on forever?"

Henry choked and sobbed without tears. Deep within his throat, a terrible, quiet sound emerged and rose an octave as the metal bit into him a little bit more. "Please," he begged.

Damien grinned. "You'll still get pleasure, love, just not in blood or bone," he said, skimming the knife to just under his cock. It burned there. "Your legacy ends here, I'm afraid."

And he cut.

His throat was raw from screaming and weeping. And the pain had numbed his body. His heart thudded, over and over, stilling at times, and it longed to stop to prevent anymore agony. Henry breathed in and out through his tears, and he closed his eyes and wished, with everything he had in him, that he was somewhere else.

_Please, please, please.  
_

Damien wiped away the wetness around Henry's eyes and kissed him.

.o00o.

Another memory.

_He was fighting with a stranger. It seemed like half of Harry's life was spent quarrel__ling with perfect strangers. On the streets, it seemed like it was all he did. The man in front of him had seen better days. His hair was clamped together by grease and dirt. His eyes were unfocused and blood-shot. The clothes on his back had holes in them, at the elbows and at the knees. As if life was only crawling._

_Harry had gone over to the homeless man after the constable had kicked him, after the nicely-dressed lady had thrown a pence at his feet – the action would have been kinder if she had spit. Harry had seen all of this happen and thought it warranted an introduction. The man was curled up like a child, leaning upon the ineffective brick wall for shelter. He was collapsed into himself as if he were just that small and unable to take much more, but, at the same time, understanding of why people hurt him. Understanding about their cruelty.  
_

_Harry__ stood over him, and, though the man wasn't oblivious to his presence, he didn't say anything either.  
_

"_You should fight back," Harry told him. "You shouldn't let 'em hurt you."  
_

"_It just is, lad," the old man said, and it was muffled by his desolate position. "Can't make it better, can I?"  
_

_Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "Then I can't, you think?" he argued, angry at this man for giving in and giving up.  
_

_The bum looked at him from over his grimy shoulder, and the face was old and drawn and scarred. The face was his were he to be on the streets from that day forward, his if he didn't change his life, and he would remain this man until ignominy became indifference which turned to death. He scowled down at the man, who__ was coughing wetly and nodding.  
_

"_You be different," the man said. "You be different and you get off the streets, eh, lad? You gotta try, though. Can't wait for God to help you."  
_

_Despair was easy to come by, suddenly. "And if it _justis_?" he asked, tossing the man's words back at him. He wanted to say, "I'm only eight, and I've got nothing to make it better, and I'm sorry that I have to be you, and I'm sorry you're even here." He thought he didn't say it because it didn't matter. Not to the old man, or to him.  
_

_And he was right. The bum laughed. It was a pained, disturbing sound of amusement that made Harry glare at him. "Then you seen your future, boy. You see all of our futures. You could go in thinking differently, but one day you won't need it anymore. One day you'll be gone."  
_

_Harry watched him closely. "You mean one day I'll be you," he said, and the thought was not only frightening, but honest.  
_

"_You're already me," the old man chuckled. "Already there," he repeated quite cheerfully. "You might say it ain't fair, you know, but I'll tell you why it is. Some people aren't meant for anything. Some people are only people, and they won't be great for as long as they live. But others, the lucky others, they'll be better. Always better. Until they're gone too."  
_

"_I'm great," Harry told him, irate with his laughter. "I _will_ be great. Just because you failed. Just because you're nothing…doesn't mean _I _will be nothing too."  
_

_The old man was not offended. "Then do it," he said. "Do it and leave the others to despair. That's what great men do."  
_

_It could happen anyway, he was aware__, and, though it remained unspoken, it may happen despite everything. Harry could be one of the others, or not them. It wouldn't happen, though, this Harry knew. And, just like every memory before this, and the memory of a dream before all of this, Harry knew it was all a plan. Everything was said and done for reasons only some shadow understood. It was hard to trust that it would work out in the end, but, for a little boy on the streets, that untouchable trust was all he had. The memory gave way not to the calming realization that he was grown and not a failure but to agony and bright blue eyes.  
_

"Henry?" Damien's gaze was bright with joy. He tapped Henry's cheek to get him awake. "You left me for a moment, love," he said with a smile, but then it turned into a disappointed frown. "Don't do it again."

Another dream. A kiss. A cut. A scream. Blood. Blood. Blood. A kiss. Laughter. A cut. A scream. Blood. Blood…

_Blood__… _

.o00o.

And then the one recollection that mattered the most.

_"Harry?"_

_He was frightened. He was somewhere he didn't recognize. It was an open field, full of what looked to be wheat and wild gras__s. The sky was dark to the left and bright to the right. It seemed as though a storm was on its way, but Harry couldn't see any clouds, and it was abnormally hot. Beneath his bare feet, the grass tickled his toes, and he breathed in the clean, heady air with a wince. Where was his cupboard? The shadows before him were odd looking. It was as if the world around him was painted, and the artist had spilled a splotch of black right in the middle of the piece. It fluctuated up and down, in a sort of strange dance.  
_

_Harry realized that the voice calling his name had been the dark mist before him. He bit his lip nervously.  
_

_"Who're you?" he asked the shadows, for it was the shadows that__ had spoken to him, if that was at all possible._

"A task," the shadows said, oddly quiet. "Can you promise to live to succeed?"

Harry frowned. It was without a doubt the strangest dream he'd ever had. He wondered, fleetingly, if Uncle Vernon would be extraordinarily angry if he drew a picture of it for class. His last one, complete with a giant man flying a motorcycle, had caused an unholy hullabaloo. But then, was this shadow-thing even real? He reached out to touch it curiously.

_"Why can't I see your face?" he asked skeptically. "And where are we?"__ a great tide in what could possibly be a sigh. "Perhaps I don't have a face," they retorted. "We're in your mind. You're dreaming."_

The shadows rose like

"It's too real to be a dream," he argued in what Aunt Petunia called his mouthy tone, and his toes were scrunched in the grass and the dirt, as if affirming the impossible reality of his dream. The shadows were playing tricks on him, no doubt. And how odd a thought that was?

"It was made for you," the shadows said, rather kindly.

Harry thought. Pursing his lips, he decided to ask, despite his fear. "Are you God?"

The shadows moved again, wrapping inward as if some great evil were upon it. As if Harry's question offended and frightened. Perhaps it did, perhaps God didn't want to be God, and Harry was not meant to understand what the shadow was. It did not answer, and Harry thought that this must be God. He bit his lip again and tried not to smile. Lonesome prayers at night had done some good, after all.

"What do I have to do?" he queried, quite excited. The shadows settled, and Harry smiled at them.

"Unity is the only way to change things. You have to live, Harry, and you have to do everything you can to rebuild the world. It's in ruin, and you can change things, if you promise. Do you promise?" the shadows whispered. They were so quiet.

Intimidated by the words, for how could he possibly do all that, Harry shook his head quickly and felt panic rise within him. He'd thought God would ask very little of him – he was only a little boy, after all – and he had thought that maybe God would help him in return.

_Angry and upset, with tears threatening to drip down his cheeks, Harry clenched his fists and yelled__, "But I can't do anything! I'm not anyone, I'm just—"_

"Harry," the shadows stopped him gently. "Even without the power to do it, your soul wouldn't ask for anything less. You must help. Promise?"

Harry looked about himself, lost and unsure. The sky around him had turned a brilliant orange, like a sunrise or a sunset. He didn't know how to accomplish this task, of a sort. From what he understood, God wanted him to change things. But change what? Something was wrong? The shadows spoke in riddles that Harry didn't understand. He remembered what his teacher at school had said about grown-up things, that some stuff was too complicated for little boys to get. Maybe God meant it that way? So that, when he grew older, he would understand what was being said. He would change whatever needed to be changed, and fix what needed to be fixed. He supposed he could promise. He wasn't likely to say no to God, was he?

_The shadows were patient, but,__ finally, Harry turned back to stare at the darkness and said, "I promise."_

In and out, the blackness moved as if to nod its gratefulness. "Some things may happen. You may have to do a great evil to do a great good, but, in the end, it's all worth it," God warned, sounding sad.

Harry thought this a very strange thing to say, but he nodded attentively anyway.

"You may be hurt, Harry," they whispered. "But you've prevented worse. You'll change the world. You'll make things better. Promise?"

_"I promis__e," Harry repeated solemnly, but he felt as though he should admit (to God and everyone else). "I really don't understand, though."_

"Pick up the poem," was the answer, both kind and loving. "Rely on your power. Be everyone and no one. Love them while you still can."

His face collapsed a bit. "No one loves me, though," he admitted with a shiver. When had it gotten cold? "Haven't you seen—"

"I've seen that, Harry, and more," the shadows said, angry on his behalf. Perhaps God would make Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia love him, if he succeeded? "It will get better. You'll have to realize that someone does love you, and you'll need to love them back. Do you promise?"

Night suddenly fell in the dream world. It was cold now, cold and black. It seemed like such an oncoming and forewarned occurrence, and yet, to Harry, all at once the world was smothered in darkness. He shivered and raised his hands up to blow on them. The shadows moved again, and they were fading, changing color, from black to green to green to blue. The mood, which hadn't been there before, lightened the world around him, cascading light across the meadow.

Harry turned back to God and licked his lips. "I promise," he said.

"Are you cold?" they whispered.

"I'm always cold," Harry told them.

Fire, hot and inescapable, abruptly obscured the landscape, burning mountains in its path. Harry watched it flow, unstoppable, it took away the shadows and the cold. He raised his hands to the night, and the fire came towards him, wrapping him in warmth and affection. His body did not burn, and his mind remained blissful. The last gift given by the shadows was this: a chance to never be lonely while the fire still burned. The little boy in the meadow danced in a dream of fire and freedom, the moon a high guardian, and when he woke into the world he vowed to change it. When he woke, he was someone new.

_And he still remembered.  
_

"They're here. They're coming," Damien whispered into his ear. "They've found you."

Henry turned his head to the side tiredly, lost in the haze of his own mind but still able to hear the yells, the screams, and the unimaginably loud _roar_. Damien paced at the foot of the bed, his eyes wild with excitement. The screams made him grin.

"I have to leave," he said. "Frankie didn't expect a _dragon_. But no one expects a dragon, do they? Ha! Frankie's left. I have to leave."

He moved back to Henry's side and sat down, running his hands across Henry's bloody and bruised face. "You assumed I wouldn't leave you alive. Assumptions Henry. Assumptions. I'm not going to kill you. I don't want to kill you."

Henry's eyes widened. "You—you—" he choked, tears gathering in his eyes.

Damien smiled at him gently. "Call it mercy, Henry Brooks," he said avidly. He suddenly reached into his pocket and took out the necklace that had been around his neck. Tied to the thin strip of rope was a button.

_That button.  
_

_Henry moved another few steps back and shoved his gun into his pocket. A clinking sound startled him. He drew the button out and stared at it, before flicking it toward the boy.  
_

He lifted it up for Henry to inspect. He leaned forward to tie it around Henry's neck. Damien kissed him one last time, an exquisite, soft touch of the lips that was both familial and intimate.

Henry started to cry. Damien drew away, clasping what looked to be a gold watch in one hand and a modified pistol in the other.

_This can't be it. He can't get away.  
_

Fire, so much like his dream, flooded the room, knocking Damien to his knees and nearly smothering Henry. He took a deep breath, and smoke poured into his lungs. He choked and sputtered as Bo destroyed his way through the entrance, knocking brick and dust into the air. Bo was not a vision, a dream, or a memory, because the Bo in his head and his heart was still a baby. Still his drake. The roar shook him out of his stupor, and he gasped for air as Damien rose to his feet with a fierce scowl.

Bo saw him. Henry saw Bo.

The magic so uniquely suited to the drake rose up and crested before descending with a bellow of finality. It crushed the collar around Henry's neck, breaking the magic in two. It jolted his entire body, making him arch in his binds, and Damien fell to his knees again as the backlash hit him without clemency. The ties burned, the bloody bed and the remains of his clothes burned as Bo let loose harmless fire across the chambers. Damien threw out his magic to keep himself safe, collapsing as his power buckled, and Henry met the ground in a harsh caress. His cheek on the ground, his body screaming, Henry lay there and did not move.

From the blaze, Bo moved forward and slithered his head underneath Henry's arm. He was lifted up to knees that were sore for a reason he couldn't remember, and he stayed there and tried to breathe. Henry looked into Bo's worried eyes and managed to raise his hand, resting it on the dragon's warm scales. The fire rumbled around them, and the smoke swirled, threatening to suffocate them. To do the job Damien hadn't done.

_And Damien. Where__—?  
_

In the light of the blaze, Henry's eyes focused on the man behind Bo. Blue eyes, a perfect smile, and a gun. A whisper of action, a bullet let fly, and Henry was calling to someone who didn't exist anymore. Because beneath his mangled hand, he felt the bullet hit Bo's side, felt the magic, _his _magic, run through the massive body before him, and then there was nothing but ash falling like snow, a bright white in the glare of the inferno. And there was none of Bo left for Henry to touch.

"_Bo."  
_

And then louder. "Bo!"

Damien was suddenly gone, and the fire swirled into a whirlwind of noise and screaming. And Henry was screaming. He paid no attention to the sounds of fighting outside the room. He had somehow curled into a ball like old men without purpose, like children left to die, covered in the ashes of his family, of his child who he loved. The fire burned and the air asphyxiated, but none of that mattered. Nothing did. Ash settled into his hair, and he was whispering, whimpering, "Bo…Bo…Bo…."

When he was lifted as if he were a child, he did not stop crying for the drake. Gentle hands maneuvered him so that he could swallow the vial placed at his lips. It went down dusty and coarse, and he coughed.

"_Bo_," he said to no one. "Bo," he said to the one holding him.

He fell into the darkness of sleep, but, just before he thought about nothing, he felt a part of him break away, leaving with little evidence of ever having been there, as if Bo was never something other than the ash he had become. Instead of slumber being welcome and familiar, Henry thought that he would not wake from the darkness he had fallen into. He thought this sleep, and this dream, felt more like death.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

A/n: Sorry guys, I got pretty sick. All better now, though! Thank you for the wonderful feedback last chapter. Some of you were a bit mad...sorry. But this chapter has an interesting development that may cheer you. I hope. Thanks again, and I hope you guys continue reviewing so loyally. You're all brilliant!

A Few Responses: Dean: Мы на протяжении рыба и чипсы сегодня, любовь. Мой дедушка собирается попасть в борьбе с Commander Brooks, Кто решил ссориться за турнир и попытаться обмануть клуб из фондов. Там может быть просто Барни сегодня. Если есть, то я ставлю его на youtube. Увидимся позже сегодня!

Bobbi: Well, I kinda wish you had been reading a book, see, because if it's a computer...and you'd thrown it. Whoa, money. I was once play Super Mario 3 on my gameboy, and I got so freaking mad that I couldn't defeat the last boss (the frog dude with the bubbles, I hate that guy) that I smashed the screen into my forehead and broke it. Yeah. I forgot where I was going with that. Glad you're enjoying the story!

Ana: Yeah, she survived, but her face was all fucked up. See, I love animals. I've had a few pets, and I adored them. But bears and tigers and shit. Sick man. Sick. They eat you...how is that acceptable? Love you back!

Act V: hallo love! Oh my, sprinkles. I love sprinkles. Seriously. I don't care that they taste like plastic. They are ultra yum, to me. So tiny and...multicolored. It's positively glorious. As for your question you beautiful, breathtaking rare bird of magic (wtf crack?) you are exactly right. The people paying attention to what Harry's buddies said now know for sure what's going on. That means...say...Arthur. Who we're going to have some words with in a few chapters. Uh oh. And Bo, I know. I'm sorry. Don't hate me?

Tartuffe: I was thinking of you the other day actually (no stalk) I was spelling out Luftwaffe and I was like "It's spelled with two F's, like Tartuffe!" and then I said, "Hey-a, where is Tartuffe? Maybe the Luftwaffe carried her off? Damn Nazis." Anyway, I'm very glad you enjoyed the chapter (as much as you could, I suppose) and I'd also like to thank you for being concerned about me. I was very touched. I only got sick though, no biggie. Mostly I was sick and sulking. I probably could have updated if I wanted to :) You're right about character development...we get some of it in this chapter! Thanks love!

Dedication: to **Amazonia** for being the 200th reviewer of this story! I need to fashion a trophy of sorts for you, haha!

Warnings for this chapter: angst, mentions of CD, mentions of violence and torture, slash, and bad language.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Thirteen

The light was sparse in the room. It reached out to his son, laying in the bed, pale and gaunt for reasons having nothing to do with meager candlelight. In slumber, the boy looked in pain, which couldn't possibly be possible, given the amount of pain relievers they had given him. Shadows clung to the lines of his face. His hands were bandaged, his leg wrapped tightly in gauze, and other things, underneath the covers, were smothered in white and healing. Slowly. Magic was heavy in the stuffy air of the room. It hovered over the prone body with starchy discomfort, and he shifted underneath its thrumming.

Working to heal the boy was its only redemption. Magic would insure him the ability to walk, albeit with a limp, and magic had re-grown everything that had been...cut off. But damages were damages, and magic could only do so much. It was safe to say, however, that his son wouldn't be confined to too much of a handicap. He thought that nothing about Henry could ever be confined.

Denny sat beside him in a chair made for upright sleeping, but he didn't sleep. His elbows were digging into his thighs, serving as pillars to hold up his head. Every once in a while, he would stretch out against the back of the chair to give his body a break, and then he would resume his previous position with thoughtful habit. Waiting, endlessly, for what, he didn't know. Henry slept fretfully, but Denny didn't touch him. The school nurse, Pompey or something like it, had told him to keep a safe distance from his son. She had said that torture had the unfortunate side-effect of making people skittish. Denny had a feeling that it wouldn't be a problem for his son.

He had a feeling there was more on Henry's mind than an intimate fear of human contact. Denny could speculate exactly how Henry would react once he woke, but he decided not to. He didn't want to think anymore than he already was. The pounding headache across his eyes agreed.

In the dark of the night, for it was pitch black and likely near dawn, Denny ran a hand through his hair and breathed in and out sluggishly. It wasn't hard to remember to do so, even though he thought it should be. All he could think about, all he could see in his mind, was Henry on his knees beside the bed in that room, surrounded by fire. In that burning room that rose up to engulf him. Only it hadn't, because Denny was perhaps only seconds early enough. Had he come later, the fire would have taken his second son wherever the ice had stolen the first. But he hadn't been late this time, and he thanked whatever had made it so.

Seeing his son is such an absolute state of deplorability had pained him more than he wanted to admit. It had frightened him, and Denny wasn't partial to being afraid. The nurse witch lady had said Henry would recover, though she said it as though she was holding back from saying, _"As much as he can recover." _

Thinking she was wrong, that people like Henry didn't snap under trauma, Denny had mistakenly glared at her. The expression he'd received back was twice as brutal. But Henry was the type who would blame the person responsible and seek revenge. It was how they did things, though it couldn't be described as healthy, to be honest. And that left him unsure of which option had the best outcome for his son, Henry broken or Henry vengeful. He was out of his league, with empty hands and an anxious mind full of anger and despair for his son. Deep within him, he knew everything Henry had gone through was his fault. And if fate, or whatever, had commanded Henry's relatives to abandon him so that Denny could keep him, then that was his fault as well. Because fate was in his favor, no matter how unfavorable the consequences.

Unaccustomed to feeling guilty (and out-of-sorts due to his guilt), Denny couldn't find it in himself to sleep. It seemed like a slight against Henry. Another one. One of many.

Dawn came faster than Denny could comprehend. A number of people came and went in the hours between five and noon. Denny ignored them all. If all he could do for his son was wait, rather than eat or sleep or _think_, then that was what he would do. He would wait forever.

It turned out that he didn't have to because Henry awoke just as the big hand hit the one. He'd been lost in dreaming up trivial things to pass time when he had looked up to see two bright green, familiar eyes upon him. As nervous as that gaze usually made him, Denny felt comforted now.

"You're awake," he whispered.

"Yeah," his son croaked, and Denny got up to get him some water. The nurse had mentioned giving Henry water in moderation, permitting him just enough as the drugs were slowly flushed out of his system. Henry took the cup gratefully, and Denny reached over to help him sit up to gulp it down. He went back to his seat when Henry waved him off, taking up his same slouch, and simply stared. Henry finished his water and held the empty cup loosely in his lap. He stared back.

"Could they—?" the boy stopped to clear his throat. "What could they do?"

Denny hated questions in that moment. He hated them all. "They were able to…grow… everything back," he said haltingly, swallowing around his suddenly heavy tongue. "You've lost a lot of the movement in your trigger finger. They were going on about therapy and all. The…well, you won't—" _How could he say this? Best be blunt. _"There was too much damage, so you won't be able to…reproduce."

He couldn't very well say,_ But that doesn't matter much, eh? What with you being a pillow biter and all. _Though Denny's inclination toward straight-talking honesty was good at times, he was clever enough to know when it was unneeded and likely cruel. He watched Henry's face for a sign of hurt, a sign of upset, but there was nothing but casual interest and a grogginess easily explained by the pain relievers.

"My leg?" Henry prodded, dipping a head towards it. Denny frowned and breathed out through his nose harshly.

"You'll walk," he said in a rather gruff manner. "But not much, lad."

His son stared down at his leg, covered in the thick cast, with an expressionless sort of convention. Denny watched him carefully and asked, "You remember?" _Do you remember all of it, Henry? _

"I remember," the boy responded, blinking slowly.

They fell silent for a long time. Or perhaps for minutes that felt like hours. The nurse came in to check on Henry, successfully breaking their somber hush. She asked him a number of questions, all about how he felt, and Denny listened intently, though his mind was elsewhere. Fury, helplessness, and sorrow came upon him in a wave of pain. He looked at Henry, and, for the first time in what seemed like ages, he wanted very much to cry. To sob in relief and pity, demonstrating a part of himself he thought may have been lost the moment he had suspended his hope for a different life. How odd it was that he wasn't surprised to feel this way. How odd it was that Denny wanted nothing more but to kill his son for panicking him. To kiss him for not leaving.

The nurse left as suddenly as she had arrived, and Henry was staring at him again. When their eyes met, the boy said, "You should go get some sleep, Den."

He didn't want to. "You're alright, yeah?" he blurted anxiously. "You're—" he coughed. "You're okay?"

Henry didn't answer; except for the edge of dissent (the stark raving part of Henry that denied reality) in his eyes, he merely stared at his father a bit blankly. "Denny," Henry rasped, "Go get some rest. I'm already tired of you."

He glowered. "Shoot down your dear old dad, why don't you?" he said unsteadily.

A small quirk of Henry's lips. "Apparently I'm not doing _any_ shooting from now on," he quipped.

"Quite point _blank_, kid," Denny said before he could stop himself. It didn't make it better that Henry laughed. "This shouldn't be funny," he scolded the both of them, his voice wavering.

Henry's grin did not diminish in the slightest. "It has to be, I think," he said before turning onto his side and away again. Denny sat there until his son fell back to sleep, instead of leaving, as Henry had requested. With his eyes fixated on the up and down movement of Henry's chest, he sat back in his chair and stayed. There was comfort for him, in this defiance.

.o00o.

The pile of cigarette butts in the ash tray looked like corpses. Dead little things that hadn't rotted yet, the smell of them like a body burned and preserved by elements. Harry flicked another mound of ash on them, like the sprinkling of dirt over a grave, before they were buried and gone.

Fussy firelight danced in his eyes, and the window in his rooms was open. The wind gathered up the flames in a soft sway. The heat didn't feel as though it warmed him, despite the fact that drops of sweat gathered on his face and flushed his cheeks. His unblinking stare was interrupted by the persistent burn of necessity.

He took another drag, and closed his eyes.

Sizzling and splintering wood burning in the dying fire was all the sound he could hear besides his own careful breathing. Though he hadn't looked out the window for too long, he knew it was raining because it smelled like wet soil, and the pitter-patter of droplets as they hit the alcove sounded like gunfire. The gale suddenly picked up, and the sweat on his face cooled as he shivered.

There was no storm the next time he looked up, and the heat in the room had gone and wasted away into stillness. Then, when he came back to himself again, the fire was relit and the curtains were blowing back and forth to a slow, lazy breeze. It was night again, suddenly, and someone was with him. A ghost of his father, of Denny, taking shape and sitting beside him in silent vigil. When Denny left, there was nothing to really look at but the weather. In and out of his waking dreams, the apparitions came, and he said nothing and did nothing to stop them. Nor did he speak. A long time ago, he remembered the specter on the platform, whereupon the sentinels bid it to speak. It was an odd thought, though, and he shook it away.

But the ghost returned. "_But soft, behold, lo where it comes again. I'll cross it, though it blast me. Stay illusion_," he whispered.

Draco met his eyes and said, "Now I know you've gone round the bend. You smell god-awful, Potter, you should know."

Harry threw his head back and laughed. "_Hamlet_, Draco, you uneducated bastard," he mocked, turning to look at the boy fully. "Is this the first time I've seen you?"

With a small tilt of his head, Draco speculated the question. "No," he answered, his eyes narrowing. "I've been to see you while you were asleep. What were you thinking about?"

He thought for a moment. "Nothing, really," he murmured. "I haven't thought of anything at all."

"How mundane," Draco sighed. "Your father has been torturing the school since you've become," he waved a hand, "this thing. This pathetic, loathsome thing."

Harry remained silent.

"I heard about your dragon," Draco went on, rather unmercifully. "You never cease to worry those who care about you. It's selfish. At least give your father some hope to go on."

"Think I've cracked, do they?" Harry snapped, anger flashing in his gaze. "And are you worried, Draco? Are you capable of it?"

The boy bristled. "You'll give me more credit than that, Harry," he bit out. "You'll mind what you fucking say to me. You've been hurt, but I can name twenty others who have no pity for you."

"I don't want pity!" he shouted... Why was he shouting?

"Then what is this?" Draco countered furiously. "This...wasting away you're doing?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "I've lost...I've lost—" he tried, but could not, would not finish.

"You've lost someone you love and the ability to create another," Draco drawled. "So take it back. Have you forgotten you've still got your father? You've still bloody got me, though I'm completely baffled as to why."

He was quiet for a time, and Draco did not leave. "So you did worry for me," he finally said softly.

"Of course I did, you buffoon."

There was a smile on his face he couldn't quite shake off. Draco spoke again before it turned into a wolfish grin. "I'll not have you mocking me, either," he claimed loftily. "You think it's rather funny to do so, but I'd like to know, Harry, if you honestly think it can go on like this much longer."

Harry whipped his head around to stare at him. "What are you saying?" he demanded.

"I want to know if I have a place here, between us. I won't be shoved to the side for long. I think I've only allowed it because I have no choice but to depend on you. But I won't any longer. I'll clear my name through any means possible, and restore my family's name without your help. I'll leave you to rot, Harry. But if you tell me differently, I won't have to. If I have a place, I'll stay."

He reached across the sofa to grab his cigarettes, lighting one quickly and inhaling. Once the smoke had drifted out of his mouth, he said, "You're an awful bastard for doing this to me now."

"What better time is there?" Draco retorted, crossing his arms. "When you're not so vulnerable? When you've gotten out of this sulk you're in and decided to finish the war? There's no talking to you then."

Harry turned away from him, gritting his teeth. "God, fuck you, Draco. Fuck you," he cursed.

"Give me a reason to remain," Draco said to him, his eyes sharp and cruel. "You owe me that, at least."

"I love you, you fucked-up dick!" Harry hollered at him. "I love you, all right?"

"Why? _Why_?"

"Because—" Harry stopped and gasped. "Because you're always there. Because you can _talk_ to me. Because you're like me. You don't leave. You don't threaten to leave. Until now, of course." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I think about you quite a lot, and because you let me not think about you."

Draco glared at him sullenly. "And if I left?" he asked.

"I wouldn't ever find a love like it," Harry choked. "If you left, it would hurt me more than I can fathom now. You'd make me regret it. I don't like being hurt, Draco, I don't like it."

"Can you admit it now without force?"

Harry swallowed, shamed to find his eyes wet and his fingers shaking. "I love you," he said gently. "I'm goddamn afraid to say I need you. I love you."

Draco blinked. "And I you," he said.

Harry laughed bitterly. "When did you figure that out?" he croaked.

"Just now," Draco told him, rising to his feet. "And so did you."

He watched the boy stand. "Such simple, sentimental words make you happy?" he questioned.

"Yes," Draco admitted, without shame. "And it's not as simple as that. Come here, Harry. You need a bath. And I'll fuck you afterward, if it pleases you."

He couldn't help but smile.

.o00o.

That night, and every night afterward, they were intimate. Harry had heard stories of lovers spending days in bed, doing nothing but the expected, as lovers were wont to do. These tales seemed silly to him. As an unproductive waste of time and, no doubt, a decidedly awkward affair, Harry couldn't understand how it was considered anything but inconsequential. Yet, those days spent in bed with Draco were ones he may as well admit would stay with him, for as long as he lived. There was a wonder in being in Draco's company for longer than strictly allowed. A wonder in doing nothing at all and possibly being fond of it. They lounged like gorgeous couples in Paris, though there was no expense but that of time passing. Where it had crawled before, when Harry was resigned to a sorrowful stupor, now their days together flew by. And he had found, underneath Draco's gaze, a temperate peace.

As they moved in unanimity, for somewhere in their sudden desperate sex they had found a rhythm, Harry thought of Draco and nothing else for the very first time. He was making noises he would likely deny later, but it pleased the boy atop of him immensely. Draco had the gall to laugh at him brightly when his moans escalated.

"You—" he puffed out, shuddering as Draco drove into him again. "Shut up."

Draco had begun talking to him during the act. It was an odd quirk, especially since the subject was rarely playful. The first night they had coupled after the incident, Draco had brought up a certain subject, even as he had been occupying his mouth with something entirely different. With the utmost care, his fingers had found the short scar beneath Harry's member and testicles – the only evidence of a wrong done. He'd caressed it carefully, and Harry had gazed down at him in abject distress as Draco asked, almost casually, "What did he do?"

"He cut them off," Harry whispered back.

Draco licked his lips. "Does it hurt?" he asked, and if not for the look in his eyes, Harry would have pulled away from him completely. He would have raged and tried to _destroy _Draco to the best of his ability.

Instead, Harry could only sigh. "Yes," he said. "But it shouldn't, I don't think. I've never really thought about children, but I wanted them, probably." He turned his head away and into the pillow. "It's what we're supposed to do, isn't it? Have children. That's what people are supposed to do. And now I can't."

"Your blood is gone," Draco told him, just as quietly. "It won't ever be in anyone else."

Harry nodded. "I think that's what hurts," he choked. "He cursed the blade, that's what the Healer said. Cursed it with every bit of hate he had towards me. His will alone did this, and I've—" he stopped and suddenly laughed. "I've always been an adherent for will."

Draco ran his nose over Harry's inner thigh. "Purebloods are often quite enthusiastic about the merits of magic," he said conversationally. "I thought, when I was a little boy, that there was no limit to it. That the possibilities were boundless."

"They can't fix it," Harry confessed, scrunching his hands into the sheets. "Magic made it permanent."

They were silent for a time. Draco's body moved, like white silk and light, up to cross lips to lips. His eyes were open and vivid. "I won't share you," he breathed into Harry's mouth. "Blood or body. And you don't need a child to live on."

Harry laughed at him. "You're one to talk. You've an obligation to have an heir. How would it have felt if you had been the one?"

Draco leaned back a bit to stare at him fully. The moon, bright and unwavering in the night, shone through the partially open window of Harry's rooms. It broke Draco's face into a puzzle of black and white. "I would be destroyed, like my name," he said intensely. "But not now. Not now."

They kissed, but Harry kept his eyes open. Draco knew why, for Harry had told him, and so he didn't say anything. The conversation over, he relaxed into the bed as Draco prepared and then shifted into him, wondering what _not now _meant for tomorrow.

Like then, they moved together now and breathed as the slow zephyr of the evening raised the hair on their naked skin.

"Tell me about Bo," Draco spoke into his neck.

Harry's eyes flew open, and he gazed at the ceiling, nonplussed and hurting. "No," he said.

"Tell me about Bo," Draco repeated.

Swallowing and shaking as the thrusts continued, he said, "Bo was lovely. What do you want to know?"

"How did he die?"

A sharp spike of pleasure rose in him and his breath hitched. "Damien shot him. With a gun. My guns. I don't have his ashes. They burned."

Draco bit him softly. "He came to get you, Harry. Why did you name him Bo?" he asked.

"_Why'd you name him Bo, anyway?" _

"_It's spelled B-O, short for Beau, stupid," Henry said, stroking the dragon up and down its back, and a purr rose from deep within its belly. "Because he's beautiful," the boy complimented, and he seemed to be speaking with the dragon again, because the drake nuzzled him happily. _

"Because he's beautiful," he said hoarsely.

Draco jolted forward and into him so strongly that Harry's back arched, and he swiftly ran his hands down Draco's arms, clawing them.

"Where did you get him?"

Another thrust, and Harry choked, "No more."

"_You are a good soul, though such pain and cruelty is there, I see. But then, a wise dragon once said the greatest souls are the ones most heavy, the weakest weigh not but one scale. For this, I choose you to care for my drake." _

_A tail suddenly came forward, the egg from the bubble wrapped in its coils, and Harry caught it in his outstretched hands as it dropped. Improvising, Harry placed the egg in his backpack, turning it about to rest on his stomach as he snapped up his coat._

"_Why has he given you the egg?" _

_There is no better protector than the unprotected. _

Draco punished him with pleasure. "Harry, tell me." And, in his words, he also said, "I'm close."

"I was supposed to take care of him," he gasped as Draco sped up. "He trusted me. _I'm close too._"

With the evening birds mocking the sounds of their lovemaking and their bodies slick with sweat, Draco teased Harry closer and closer to the edge. "You didn't fail him," Draco moaned. "It wasn't your fault. Sometimes—" he hissed through his teeth as Harry clenched around him. "Sometimes there's no reason for things. There's no blame but the obvious."

"_But I don't understand you humans too much. Dragons don't ask why, but only accept that it is. Humans like to brood and place blame, my Dragon father says that it's your way, but I think it's just too complicated. Must you always have a reason for things?" _

Harry felt his whole body shake with despair. "I miss him," he whimpered. "I miss him."

Draco came, and Harry followed him. With his hands wound tightly in Draco's hair, he breathed against the boy's cheek and realized, very suddenly, that he was crying. He was unsure how long he had been. A deep part of him, living somewhere in his chest and in his soul, grew taut in pain as he felt Draco pant on top of him.

_Harry looked up. Stars, bigger and brighter than they had ever appeared, loomed above them like white dots in a big black blanket. He could see the dark shadows of hills beneath them, but he turned his face toward the night again and stared. Bo shone like the moon, happily twisting and turning through the air. _

_And he smiled. _

Sobs, uncontrollable and unwanted, burst from his throat in a wretched sort of yowl. Draco did not pull away from him, but, instead, slipped his hands underneath Harry's back and tightened them across his skin. In the wake of their lovemaking, Harry cried for Bo and let Draco console him, and when they awoke in the morning, there was something that had changed.

Something beautiful, like Beau.

.o00o.

"And that's that," Harry said, finishing their rather one-sided conversation. He was sitting on the sofa he'd grown to love quite a bit. Across from him, Draco reclined with one leg over the other, a cup of tea in his hands. Dressed and clean, Harry almost looked as though he was going somewhere. But he hadn't left his rooms in close to a fortnight, and the thought of seeing anyone besides the boy in front of him made him sick. Draco had kept most of his visitors away, and for that he was glad.

The fire was lit again, though it had no need to be. The day was crisp, but warm; the first sign of Spring came with the piquant, forewarning scent on the wind. There were colors in the room. Draco was wearing a light blue shirt, and the tea cup was violet. The rug beneath heir feet was red, like a ruby, and the curtains yellow. Yellow and gleaming. Something, far off in his peripheral vision, was quite obnoxiously cerulean, and he tried to remember what it was. The clarity of these colors struck Harry as odd, and he wondered how long they had been there – how long he had not noticed.

Like steam, the smoke from his cigarette traveled upward until it disappeared. He watched it go with a vague feeling of anguish. Draco hadn't responded. Was he crazy?

"So, this all came to you…in a dream?" he finally asked, and his tone was skeptical, but curious.

Without meaning to, Harry let loose a sigh of relief that did not go unnoticed by Draco, who raised his eyebrows. "Yes," he nodded. "I would normally discount something so fantastical, but that fire – in the dream and in real life – it burned down the house_. I _burned down the house."

"And then you were left to die," Draco continued for him. "Left homeless because they were scared of you."

"They didn't _want _me," Harry argued. "Their fear wouldn't have mattered if they'd _wanted _me."

Draco frowned, looking out the window. "I won't pretend to understand," he said, "but I'm glad you told me. I need to ask you a question, though. What makes you think it wasn't just a dream?"

Harry blinked, before he narrowed his eyes. "I survived, didn't I?" he disagreed, jutting a thumb at himself. "I became something so extraordinarily _different_ than what I was. How can that be anything but something incorporeal and meticulous?"

Shaking his head, Draco set his teacup down and stared at him closely. "It could be just _you_," Draco said. "It could be that you're the exception. _We're _the exception."

"Then you don't believe in destiny?" Harry countered heatedly. "I seem to remember a prophecy that dictated certain things I have done. A prophecy, that, without which, Dumbledore would not have brought me here. And I wouldn't have met you."

Draco scoffed. "You're reaching." He waved a hand. "What do you want me to say? I think the dream could likely be real, that something came to you with a task. Or, it could be the fanciful wish of a little boy in a cupboard. But you might never know, you realize? It could be that you do all of this battling for an answer you'll never have."

Harry observed him thoughtfully. "I know. There're others who think this war was prophesized. Griphook. Guillermo. Perhaps it's not my imagination, Draco."

"Or they're just as insane as you are," he disputed nonchalantly, shifting in his seat. Harry glared at him, and Draco laughed. "No, I don't think you're insane. I only think you are what you are because of what happened."

He simply had to roll his eyes and groan. "Oh, don't bring it up," he cursed. "I'm so very tired of this subject. _Circumstances _make a person, but I've _persevered_. I'm _better_ than my circumstances."

"Without them there would be nothing to be better for," Draco told him, inclining his head and smiling.

"All right, I'm sorry I even told you," Harry bit out, frustrated but amused.

Draco smirked and looked away. They listened idly to the fire popping and the sounds of the outside world for a moment. Harry waited for Draco to speak, because it looked as though he wanted to. In the meantime, he stared rather intently at the boy. How had he missed how wonderfully lovely Draco was? The young man looked old sitting there, old and tired. A sudden picture of Draco before Harry had ever met him sprouted in his thoughts. A picture startling and awful.

Had he made Draco this way? And was it wrong to love him as he was now, and not regret?

"I would have been different, I think, if my circumstances hadn't involved you," Draco said abruptly, mirroring Harry's thoughts so perfectly that he was alarmed. "Maybe I wouldn't have been as patient as I am now. I'm not sure."

Harry cleared his throat anxiously. "You're different, that's for sure," he said softly. "You're very different."

Draco turned to meet his eyes. "I killed someone. I killed Dumbledore to get one over on you. Because you made me feel inferior."

He gaped. "Are you—" he started.

"No, I'm not blaming you," Draco cut him off. "I killed him because I needed to prove myself to myself. That had nothing to do with you. Only, I wouldn't have been able to do it had you not been there. I feel…safe, now that I know I'm capable of taking a life. _That's _what makes me understand, just a bit, why a child on the streets could kill someone and revel in it. It's darker than anything I've ever encountered, and Lucius Malfoy is my father. And I was a Death Eater. It's a darker truth than anything I've ever known, but it's real. It's honest. I can understand that, at least."

Harry had closed his eyes during the speech, but as Draco fell silent, he opened them once more. "I don't want you to leave me," he whispered, asking for the subject to be brought up for the first time ever. It was a sore subject, a dead horse in Harry's mind, but Draco would know how to say it. Would know how to explain.

"I won't," Draco said, looking weary. "We may not last, but I won't leave. I do _want _you, but if I find fault in you, I'll make it known. Instead of, say, leaving you to die on your own. Or hurting you. I hope you'll extend the same trust to me?"

"Can't help but worry," Harry told him, shrugging a shoulder. "But, yeah, I won't do any of that to you either."

A knock suddenly sounded on the door. Draco looked over curiously, but Harry felt his body freeze in apprehension. It had been near two weeks, and Harry was more dressed than he'd been since he had holed himself away in his rooms. He was more aware, and ten times happier than he had been. He was _better_. Credit was due to Draco for pulling him out of that mucky despair, but he knew that it was about time he left his rooms and called upon those who cared for him. Who worried for him.

Draco hadn't left his side in all of those days, so he likely hadn't told anyone Harry's mental state, much less its improvement. He was so goddamn _grateful _that Draco had stayed with him, but this new person at the door…what would they demand? He didn't want to be asked if he was all right, if he was well enough to continue, not in anyway but how Draco had done it. Almost cruelly, and definitely with love.

He noticed that Draco had gotten up to open the door. Panicking, Harry crushed his heels against the floor and sat up, calling out, "Wait!"

Draco turned around expectantly. "You're ready to talk to your father, Harry," he stated.

"How do you know it's him?"

There was a sweet smile on Draco's face then. "It's always him," he said. "He never gives up."

And then Denny was there, standing at the door looking scruffy and flustered, a hopeful expression lighting up his face. Harry felt something inside of him burst with joy.

"Hey, Den," he said, a grin slowly spreading his lips.

Draco made to excuse himself, but Harry grabbed onto his sleeve and tugged. "Stay," he ordered. It must have been odd to Draco, because he frowned before acquiescing. Denny watched them for a moment before glaring at his son.

"You scared me, kid," he said, coming in and closing the door.

Harry glanced away from him. "I know," he admitted remorsefully. "I'm sorry."

Denny moved toward him and suddenly wrapped him in a hug. Over his shoulder, Harry's eyes widened as the clasp tightened around his shoulders, and it was so _strange_ for Denny to be hugging him. _Strange_ and _welcome_ and maybe Harry would be okay.

And then Denny pulled away and said, "You're not sorry, you little fucker. Why the hell did I take you in? You're a goddamn menace."

Harry laughed. Maybe he was.

"What's the news, Den?" he questioned, surprising himself and everyone in the room. He hadn't cared what the news was at all the past week and a half. He felt as though he couldn't be _bothered_, and the last thing Denny and Draco expected was him to bring it up of his own volition.

His father cleared his throat and segued from surprise to airiness. "I think you ought to know that your friend, the Russian lady, she's having some trouble. Frankie attacked her last Thursday. Went so far as to try and kidnap her brother as a hostage. Guillermo's gone and called an army together, went after Frankie, but the blighter escaped, _again. _We've got a lead on him, though. He's not been staying with Rahul, Hen; he's been traveling with magic. We need to use some voodoo to find him, like your boy did to Damien, but only when you're ready, of course, no pressure."

Harry was a bit slow to understand what Denny had said, given it was so much information in so little time, but, when he did, he was baffled, to say the least. "I'm sorry, what? My boy? What about Damien?" he questioned confusedly.

Denny raised his eyebrows, glancing at Draco. "You don't know?" Denny asked unnecessarily, turning to Draco. "You've not told him?"

Draco smiled and lifted a shoulder as Harry rolled his eyes and huffed. "Just fucking tell me, Den," he demanded.

"Your boy here, he went and found Evanward. Brought his head back and everything," Denny informed him, sounding almost _proud_ of Draco.

Harry turned to the boy and gawked. "How did you _find _him?"

The blond stared back with a tiny tilt of his lips. "Magical residue. It was all over that scar of yours. When you were asleep, those first few days in the Hospital Wing, Severus and I collected the residue and used a Locator spell to find him."

"And you went after him?" Harry said, rather askance.

Draco inclined his head. "I told you that if I had a place, I would stay. And by stay, I meant that your fight would be mine."

For the first time in his life, Harry had found not someone to fight against him, or fight for him, but to fight _with _him. It was an almost unbelievably wonderful feeling, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. When had they fallen in love? And Harry suddenly just _loved him_, with everything that he had and would ever have in the future. It was strange to love, and he was caught off guard with the feeling of delight it gave him. A rush not unlike a battle or a chase. Like a hawk onto a rabbit, love had snuck up on him and had choked the indifference out of him. He shivered in its wake and felt as if he'd died like a rabbit, and yet he'd flown and had risen like a bird of prey. When the hell had it happened?

"You killed him for me," Harry whispered.

"I killed him for you," Draco agreed, his gaze affectionate. "Now you need to kill Frank McAllister for Bo."

For Bo.

Could he do it? Could he face Frank and not crack completely and murder everything in sight? Would he remain whole, when Frank's body was broken and Bo was still gone and all of the consequences of _everything_ reared its terrible, ugly head? Harry looked at the men in the room. His father, whose hopeful eyes had not shuttered, who was glad to see him alive. Glad to have him. Draco. His very sudden, very perfect, lover who had promised not to leave him.

If he had them, he wouldn't crack. If he had them, then this war could very well be finished. He would be able to finish it.

And Frank McAllister would _suffer_.

"I'll help," Denny offered his services. "And the other dragon and the gremlin are wanting to see you as well. They've promised to help. It _can _be done, Henry Brooks."

Harry smiled, and he lifted up his hand. The finger Damien had cut off and re-grown was still very sore. He tried to bend it, but movement was limited to almost nonexistent. "Remember, I can't shoot a gun, Den, so I won't be any use," he reminded a little bitterly.

Denny hadn't forgotten, but he looked as though he was going to contest Harry giving up. Before he could do so, however, Draco suddenly started to laugh.

"What?" Harry asked, somewhat defensively.

Draco shook his head and walked over to Harry's desk, plucking up something and throwing it into his lap. The Elder Wand sat, almost innocently, on top of his thighs and Harry picked it up.

"This is your heritage. You're a _wizard_, Harry. Be one," he claimed stuffily. "Kill Frank McAllister. You'll feel plenty better."

Harry held it in the palm of his hand and stared. He felt a smile move across his face and travel up into to his eyes.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two heathens to your domestic sentiments and murderous scheming," Draco said, moving towards the door.

Harry didn't stop him this time, but he did say, "You sound like Snape."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Nonsense," he sneered. "I'm much prettier than Snape."

He watched the blond leave, still holding the wand close. Denny sighed, sat down beside him, and said, "He's a keeper, Hen, I'll tell you that."

Harry glanced down and nodded. "I think he might be, Den, I think he might."

They were both bowled over by the concept, but they didn't say anything more about it. "We're going to get Frank, kid," Denny told him, his smile happy and menacing. He sobered, though, for a long moment, his face drawn with worry. "You're okay, Hen? You're all right now?" he asked a bit desperately.

Harry looked at the door Draco had gone through, and then out the window. It was a good day for flying. "I am," he said. "I'm okay."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

A/n: What I should have done this week is get totally freaking wasted, contemplate death, and sob uncontrollably for long hours that eventually turn into days and weeks. But I didn't. I finished the chapter. To all of you who actually read this author's note and want to help, send hugs in the form of reviews. Everybody needs a goddamn hug once and a while. Including me. To all of you who had a fucking disaster of a week as well: cheers. I'll have one on you.

A Few Responses: Act V: What up, my censored racial slur for the sake of humor? Hey, I am not Dumbledore, k? I am drop dead fucking gorgeous, with a brain and a mad funny bone. Not to mention my dance moves. I can tear it up like MC Hammer any day. Stop. Paddy time. That's right. Whoa. I think I need sleep. Anyway…can you believe that HD isn't my OTP? Can you guess what pairing I'd die for? Tell me your OTP too. I want to know. I also want to know who came up with OTP and decided to make it an acronym? Lame sauce. The age of acronyms. The world is full of trogs and Obama bin Spazzins. For real. I love you. Did you know?

Ana: Well, I don't really think it was the tigers fault. I mean, it was locked in a garage for most of its life, and they treated that jungle cat like a dog. I would be pissed too. And that little girl went and provoked it, from what I heard. But then I really hate tigers, so…why am I defending it? Frank will get what-for, I promise. Love you, Ana, its always wonderful to hear from you!

Thanks, as always, to my lovely **Amazonia**. Forever and ever.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, plotting, scheming, bad language, abstract fluff, and a cliffhanger.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Fourteen

"You've finished, then?"

Severus turned to his godson, the soft light of the candles on the worktable shining in his black eyes, and inclined his head in a barely detectable nod. There was diffidence in Severus' countenance, perhaps due to the potion he had been working on for the better part of two days. With their argument fresh and still simmering with the threat of reemergence, Draco predicted that, though his godfather had successfully made the potion (a challenge that he _knew_ Severus couldn't ignore), he would not let it go without trying to talk Draco out of what was planned. That meant they would be fighting, again, and he was loathe to do so simply because he wanted to get this_ done_.

And Severus Snape was a difficult man at the best of times, but, despite all of the aggravation involved in dealing with him, Draco loved him regardless. However, feelings aside, he was unprepared to back down, as Severus should know.

"A fair warning," he began as Draco moved closer to the table. "And don't roll your eyes at me. It's through my efforts that this ridiculous undertaking is even possible."

Draco leaned against an empty stool and gazed back at Severus dispassionately. "Say what you will," he commented. "Though I do hope you aren't making a habit of reiteration."

The glare he got for that particular comment would have made him cry, were he five again and being scolded. "These are a fool's ventures, both your plans to avenge your lover and your insistence on instigating a verbal thrashing from me. I ask you, one last time, to reconsider," Severus said, finishing off his statement with an air of rebuke.

He had the courtesy to think upon it briefly, his arms crossed and his posture tense. Severus ladled the cooled potion into vials, meticulously cataloging them before placing them in a small sectional case. Draco knew his godfather had already marked and filed his notes on the potion, preparing to send his writings off to various publications once the endeavor proved triumphant. It was part of the reason Draco had come to Severus in the first place (bar the obvious truth that the man was a God when it came to potions). His vanity alone would substantiate his involvement and assistance in Draco's plans. Though, admittedly, he hadn't expected _such_ a contentious reaction from his godfather.

"You're logical, Severus," Draco began, weighing his words carefully. "I would even say you're the most logical person I know. But, in this, I think you're wrong, and I'll repeat myself, no matter how irritated it makes me: I would not want Harry Potter to seek his torturer out himself. _You _evenconfessed that it would be disastrous."

Severus snorted. "Disastrous is not quite the word I would use for it, Draco," he said, waving his arm in such a way that it made Draco think of Harry. Or perhaps, more specifically, Harry when he was being cruel. "I would say apocalyptic, if I knew you wouldn't accuse me of being mawkish."

Oh, and he _would_ have, no matter how apt the word was. Severus and Draco had, nonetheless, agreed on that one particular conclusion during their shouting match. That, should he consider revenge, Harry, in his timidity following the death of a loved one, would raise a part of himself best left subdued. His tentative hold on reason and reticence would flee in the face of his torturer's death. What they speculated was that, once that part of Harry was uncapped, it could not be contained, and then their control of Harry (however little it was) would die along with his sanity.

If the _entire world _was not threatened by such a happening, Draco and Severus might have let things play out how they were willed. If Draco was less attached to Harry (and this was one of Severus' claims as well), then they wouldn't have been involved in the ludicrous mess in the first place. _If wishes were fishes, Severus_, Draco thought rather callously. The man would simply have to get used to their relationship, since they'd thrown down the gauntlet and decided to give it a go. Whatever _it _was, given Harry's skewed outlook on relations of any sort.

"It's certainly not my job to dispose of Potter's enemies," Draco told him civilly, "And that isn't what this is about. I'm preventing a catastrophe here."

"You're meddling. You're wanting to be useful, Draco," Severus snapped, finishing his ladling and corking the last vial with a loud huff. "And, rather unfortunately, I might add, you're angry on behalf of Potter because has _suffered_ an _injustice,_ of all things."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "So his wrongs condone a wrong done to him in return? What humane reasoning is this?" He stopped Severus before he could react to that particular comment. "The fact of the matter is that we have the ability to find this man and deal with him; not doing so is a shame and a disgrace."

"This isn't your fight, Draco," he bid once more.

Draco shook his head slightly. "I'm beginning to think it is," he opposed.

His godfather stared at him for a long while, still and expressionless as he often was when something surprised him. The watchful gaze did not waver for a long while, not until Severus' eyes flashed with unmasked disappointment and he said, "He'll never clear your name, Draco."

_He'll never clear your name._

Licking his lips, Draco uncrossed his arms and stared back. "I know," he responded tightly. Then a small, amused smile flitted across his face. "I know. But if you see it for what it is, for what it means…then I can't be too cross with his decision."

Severus scoffed, grinding his teeth loudly. "I never took you for a fool, boy," the man cursed him. "You honestly believe this is Potter's way of showing _affection_ for you? By trapping you in a life of exile, of running. By taking away the freedom he _covets_ for mankind, enough to start a war to promote it?"

Grinning a bit, Draco dipped his head. "I do," he admitted. He cut his godfather off before he went into a rage. "But I'll clear my name myself. I'm beginning to see how this war will end, Severus, and, in the prophecy I most like, I _am _free. My name restored and my dignity honored. And with it, I still have Potter. I want to have him for as long as I can stand it."

"What fantasies you pander to, Draco," Severus sneered.

Draco lifted a shoulder. "You have no choice but to agree," he said, snatching up one of the vials. "I'll not reconsider."

He examined the potion while his godfather stewed. The magical residue on the curse scars on Harry's body alone were enough to catch pieces of Damien Evanward and track him. In the catatonic state that he was in, it was no trial to sift the residue from Harry while he wasn't able to protest. Much like the removal of memories into a Pensieve, Draco had removed strings of the man's magical signature carefully with the very tip of his wand. Into the potion – the ingredients of which were close, if not equivalent, to the spell used to locate Wizards by their signature – they had gone. That was where Severus' genius was needed, for, though the premise had come from Draco, he hadn't the foggiest how to go about making it.

"It will work fine," Severus told him, likely thinking Draco was about to question his expertise. As if he would dare. "I have only one more point to make," he said stiffly.

Draco dropped the vial into his pocket. "Go on," he prompted.

"You won't bring the man back here for the others to deal with. I know why. You cannot risk him exposing Potter or yourself, or, perhaps, me, if you'd considered it. Neither are the authorities an option. The boy's father is an unimaginable alternative, or so I gathered from your rather uncomplimentary tirade about the merits of Mr. Brooks and his _ability_ to accomplish tasks with discretion. Therefore, given the lackluster choices at hand, I can only guess that you mean to kill him."

Draco was silent for a moment. "I do mean to kill him," he said. "You're right."

Severus stiffened. "And your soul is forfeited to Potter's cause," the man murmured, and then, in a muffled tone, added, "just as I thought it would be."

"Not _his _cause," Draco snapped for the first time during their discussion. "I'm doing this for myself. I'm doing this because he's been hurt and, against all odds, that makes me _angry._ It has very little to do with the war and his cause or his dreams. _Don't _make assumptions."

"Doubtlessly, this is misconstrued love," Severus bit out, close to exploding. "Your soul, Draco, is still exposed! Does that mean _anything_ to you?"

Draco only felt the need to say one thing: "Dumbledore."

"Different! That's different, and you know it! You were coerced into killing Dumbledore. You're planning to murder this man. No, you're not killing him. It's what Potter would do, and his soul is rotten, Draco, simply _rotten_."

He'd had enough. When Severus got this way, there was no talking to him. When the man knew he was wrong, he only continued his defensive tirade no matter how ridiculous it got. Draco had things to do and no time to persuade his stubborn godfather otherwise. With a turn of his heel, he headed towards the door, at the same time mutely thanking Severus for falling silent. He wasn't the kind of man to yell at a retreating back, luckily. Not like Draco's father, who was able to goad the most pacifistic men.

Before he swung the door open, he turned back to his godfather pensively. "You and I both know it isn't rotten," he said.

Severus' face had fallen back into apathy. "I envy him for it," Severus confessed quietly.

Draco looked at the door, held open by his hesitant hand, and then turned back to the man in the shadows of the workroom. "I do too," he said before taking his leave.

When he reached the grounds of the castle, he fitted the Invisibility Cloak closer around his shoulders and uncorked the vial. Swallowing its contents, he dropped it back into his pocket and waited for the potion to take effect. It didn't keep him waiting long, for the potion immediately sunk into his magic, shaking it like a dog would a caught rabbit, and threw him in the direction of Damien Evanward. Much like a Portkey, the magic deposited him messily in front of what looked to be an open field.

There was a large willow beside him, casting shadows on the ground. The barley growing in the meadow smelled of wet soil and the promise of a cold night. From the sounds surrounding him, he was close to the ocean; he could hear the echo of waves on the wind. A house was up ahead, just past a very old, decrepit looking fence, cut at the middle as if time had vanished a piece of it. A hound bayed as Draco journeyed forward, closer to the house.

A man emerged from the front door, and Draco suddenly knew it wasn't his house. The dog howling was not his dog. None of this belonged to him. Looking at the man, he speculated that he was a person who had very little to possess. Whatever he did have, Draco imagined, had been taken by force. A face could tell you anything, he knew, and this man's face was both endearing and disgusting.

"Damien Evanward?" he asked gently, the wind helpfully carrying his voice.

The man smiled. "I am," he said. "How can I help you?"

Draco thought about what to say. "How did you do it? Subdue someone like Potter, I mean. How was it done?" he questioned, not keenly, but perhaps curiously enough to appeal to Damien.

Amicably, Damien told the stranger about Harry. Through another's eyes, albeit biased, Draco could see something Severus had tried very hard to convey to him. The quintessence of revenge, standing before him in a field of barley, in a house that wasn't his, with his gaze bright as he gave his account of hurting the man who had hurt him. A look about Damien said that he had been consumed with revenge. Yet now, when he had suitably accomplished his plans, it seemed as though Damien Evanward had little else to do. There was an air of unaccountability about him, a soft feeling of being lost and found and uncaring of the future. Would Draco feel the same after Damien was gone?

But Harry waited, however unresponsive, and that was something that separated Damien from Draco.

That and solemnity, which Draco had in spades and Damien severely lacked, given his laughing demeanor as he mocked Harry's cries for clemency.

When he was finished, Draco gave him a pleasant smile, which was returned with enthusiasm. "I'll have to take a leaf out of your book," he said to Damien casually. "I'm afraid Potter rarely listens to me, if ever. And getting a confession of love out of him will be a bit like pulling teeth, I imagine. You'll have to wish me luck."

Damien frowned. "Who did you say you were again?" he queried nonchalantly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of high tide, and the hound continued to cry.

Draco smiled at him, and Damien smiled back sincerely. "When they do this to house elves, it means they were loyal," he said.

Confusion swirled about the man's face, both awkward and suited to his features. Just before he opened his mouth to question the rather bizarre comment, Draco raised his wand and narrowed his eyes before taking a breath. "_Sectumsempra_," he murmured, his hand still and the spell strong and true.

The head fell to the ground like a stone, rolling to a stop on the meadow's grass and leaving a bloody trail behind it. Draco watched its course until it came to a halt, where there, at his feet, it remained. The hound was silent, and so was the wind.

"Too bad you're not a house elf," Draco said as he bent down to pick up the head by its hair.

He thought of leaving, and he left, the head gone with him and the meadow left behind. When he arrived, he planned to deliver the head and not say anything more on the matter. He planned to shake Harry out of his melancholy, to nurse him back to reality, so that, when the boy woke, there would be nothing to haunt him but memories.

And memories, like the villains who made them, were easy to kill if there was someone willing to help.

.o00o.

It was strange carrying a wand. Though he wasn't unaccustomed to it, as a tool or a weapon, it was never the first line of defense he would draw, certainly not when his pistol would wield the same desired effects while also adding a bit of flare. Harry had to admit that he was a fan of showy weapons, and perhaps this quirk of his was the reason he was able to carry around the Elder Wand without much fuss. It could have also been the rush of power that streamed through him at the slightest touch.

The wood was suited to him, intrinsically and joyfully (as much as a seemingly inanimate object could be, he supposed), since he had inadvertently captured it from Draco. His neglect, in the form of never using the wand and even _forgetting_ about it, had made it cross with him. It was temperamental for close to an hour after Harry began practicing with it, but it had settled down for him eventually. Though its minor tantrum had Harry blowing apart his rooms and nearly taking off Snape's head, when the man had decided to visit him.

He walked with it now. It was thrumming beneath his coat like a cat, happy to be out and of use. The Ministry was oddly quiet, as if a suffering silence had descended after the wave of havoc the first few months of the war had caused became a norm. There was a tiredness in every man or woman Harry passed, and they did not greet him, or even look at him, because things were _hard_ and there was little to no _hope. _Originally, Harry had thought to visit Scrimgeour to keep up appearances, as Draco had prompted him to. It was supposed to be an experiment to see how well Harry truly was. They resolved that if Harry could not handle a visit to the Ministry, then more time was needed in isolation. More time that they did not have.

With his objective in mind, he'd grabbed up the Elder Wand and, only grumbling a bit before, took a Portkey to London. The same desolate theme he saw in the Ministry had been in the city as well, as if warning Harry of the scenes to come. But he wasn't prepared for just how disheartened the world had become.

And it made him _angry._

Bypassing the secretary outside of Scrimgeour's office, Harry marched into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. When Harry entered, Scrimgeour, who was seated at his desk, was holding his head in his hands with a lost sort of look on his face. His eyes immediately snapped up and his arms fell to the desk.

"P-Potter!" he said rather gruffly.

Harry glared at him, his face hard, and made towards the chair across from him. He saw Scrimgeour observing his leg quickly before staring at him in disgruntlement. Sitting, he made a show of crossing his legs with a narrow-eyed glower at the Minister.

"What happened to your—"

"_Leave_ it," Harry hissed through clenched teeth.

Scrimgeour bristled. "I've an appointment with a dignitary at noon, Potter, you can't just—"

"Frankly, _Minister_, I am a goddamn dignitary. And one who's a right side more important than the wanker you're supposed to have tea with."

"_Pardon?_" the man said, near shaking with rage. "Look at this! _Look at this!_" he shouted, waving a desperate hand at the paperwork strewn about his desk. "I've got the destruction, death, and anguish of Wizarding Britain before me! _All of this_!" He flicked a paper up and it fell off the desk and to the floor. "What've you got? Signing autographs for your adoring lackeys? Posing for _Witch Weekly _as the bloody world falls to bloody _pieces_ around us?"

Harry had no doubt the Minister would have said more, had he not stood and abruptly slammed his hands down onto the desk. Though a bit dramatic for Harry's taste, it certainly did the job. Scrimgeour gaped at him, rendered speechless by Harry's fury.

"My _leg_ happened as a result of a tussle with a few Muggles while I was out trying to help _your people_," he snarled, his voice very low and very tight. "Imagine my surprise when I arrive at the vaunted Ministry of Magic, run by the _great_ Rufus Scrimgeour, to find him flaccidly unmoving over the state of _his people_. Grousing about paperwork, of all things. Imagine my surprise, _Minister_, when I see ghosts walk through the halls of the Ministry, the heart of our side, misery in their eyes and helplessness in their stride."

He straightened up, taking his hands off of Scrimgeour's furniture as if it sullied him. "Now see mine," he said quietly, getting up and walking away. "I'm the only one here _without _a limp."

On his way towards the door, Scrimgeour, as predicted, called him back. "Potter! Come back here and sit," he commanded, trying in vain to get back a smidgeon of his poise.

Harry turned about and walked back, but he did not sit. "This is pathetic, I'll have you know. The world is in shambles, I'll give you that, but you being anything but King George in this is a disgrace."

Scrimgeour sighed and scratched at his head rather violently. "I suppose I have to invite your opinion now," he grumbled. "What would you have me do, Potter? They're winning, you know. We're ready to sod it. The only reason I don't mean to surrender is because I think they won't stop. They'll kill us all."

The helplessness in his stature made Harry nearly froth with indignation. "You're a fucking idiot," he said casually, despite his fury.

"And you're a buggering lout with a bad attitude."

Harry grinned. "Suppose I am," he agreed, inclining his head. He turned sober in the next moment. "The Wizarding World can't lose hope, Scrimgeour, or we'll have a problem. If there is an end to this war, then both worlds _must_ be equal. Surely, you can see that. And it won't happen if we're broken."

"In my wildest fantasies, Potter, this war ending so perfectly would be wonderful. But I'm a realist, boy. I don't have time to contemplate idealism," he said harshly, sparse hair falling forward and onto his wrinkled forehead.

"Despite it all," Harry, with a heavy air of severity, told him, "they need to believe that all will be well _eventually_. They need to have a hope for the future because, without it, we've already lost. We're _as good as dead_. Not to mention, Minister, the dissension between blood that we have going on _again_. Did you know that Muggleborns are being ostracized once more? As if the Dark Lord hadn't died. As if the Ministry couldn't be damned to help them! You've civil war here, sir, and you'd best stop it before it gets worse!"

Scrimgeour sat up in his seat abruptly and slapped his hand down. "Damn you, I know this, Potter! You're not the only one to have brought it up!" he snapped.

"So then why have you done _nothing_?" Harry condemned.

"I've done plenty—!"

"Not _enough!_" he interrupted loudly, but then his tone mellowed quite a lot. "Unite them. What fight is there if we're divided? You haven't doomed us yet; there's still some hope. If you want me to make a public speech of some kind—"

"Oh, sod your public speech," Scrimgeour cursed Harry, turning away from him with a fierce scowl.

They were silent for awhile, and Harry waited patiently as the man mulled over Harry's certainly cutthroat words. Finally, without moving to look at Harry at all, Scrimgeour asked, very tiredly, "I've not doomed it yet?"

Harry stared at him. "Not yet," he affirmed, backing toward the door. "But you're running out of time."

He left the man in thoughtful silence, disgraced enough (hopefully) to be stronger from there on out. The halls of the Ministry echoed in their desertion, and outside, in the heart of London where the other world lived, there was only a whisper of life.

And Harry thought they were almost equals.

.o00o.

Alejandro frowned as his assistant announced a rather strange visitor. He rose when the man walked into the room, a hand outstretched already to shake his own. Courteously, they greeted each other, and Alejandro offered the man coffee and a light lunch. They were both missing a noon meal, after all, in meeting each other.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Rahul?" he asked curiously, straight to business, since he knew Rahul would appreciate it. Indeed, the man smiled at him, chuckling lightly.

"I'm here to speak about mutual acquaintances of ours, of course," he said. "A Mr. Henry Brooks and Frank McAllister."

To cover up his sudden anxiety, Alejandro smirked. "No Mr. for McAllister then? Are you at odds? Or is there no respect between you?" he mocked.

Rahul's lips barely twitched, and his gaze was harsh. "Frank McAllister has gone mad," he blurted, though not at all brutishly. It was delivered as a snake would venom, full of surprise and pain.

"I'd been lead to believe you were a supporter of his mad plan, Mr. Rahul," Alejandro immediately countered, pleasantly thanking the maid for bringing in their coffee. Rahul ignored her completely.

"I will admit that I was at first, sir," Rahul confessed in a tone of voice that said he wasn't confessing _anything_. "His straightforwardness appealed to me; he would use more of the weapons than Brooks allowed. He would hit harder and faster. Brooks also has no knowledge of money, and money is what drives all men to war."

Alejandro's neck twisted as he stared sideways at Rahul, closely, cautiously. "Henry works for something besides a world run by avarice and violence," he said quietly.

"Henry works for a utopia that can't exist," Rahul argued, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "Frank is a practical man, and twice as strategic. You cannot blame me for taking up with him, I'm afraid."

He considered Rahul for a moment. The man looked worn but healthy; there was evidence of many sleepless nights in his face, but besides that, there was nothing weighing the man down except for the issue he had presented Alejandro with. The fact that even _Rahul_ thought Frank was mad meant something dangerous, because Arif Rahul was radical at best, and he was often fond of other militant men. Fond of them and money, really.

So, in accordance with what Alejandro knew about Rahul, he could understand that the reason for Rahul's displeasure in Frank mostly had to do with compensation. Perhaps their tactics had proved to be less than fruitful? Still, it was worrisome that Rahul's demeanor cried unease where Frank McAllister was concerned.

"I don't presume to blame you for anything, Mr. Rahul," Alejandro responded civilly. "Is this your purpose for coming here? To warn me of Frank McAllister's blossoming insanity?"

Rahul's eyes flashed. "It is, Mr. Guillermo," he said, leaning forward in his seat. "I'm here to warn you and to perhaps strike a deal. I know you are in confidence with Henry Brooks, whereas I am not. Convey to him that I am prepared to surrender to his judgment once more. I was mistaken to choose Frank over him, since the man has gone mad. In return, I offer my assistance with guarding the munitions factories here. We have plenty of men, and I know you are woefully short."

Alejandro's eyebrows rose. "I wasn't aware there were any factories here," he said casually, sliding a finger across the rim of his coffee cup.

Rahul grinned. "You and I both know it's a loud secret. Frank will be after them, Mr. Guillermo. He's running out of weapons."

They were silent for a time. Rahul sipped at his coffee, grimaced, and set it down again. Alejandro watched him carefully. "I will have to think about your generous offer, Mr. Rahul. It is surprising, to say the least," he finally said.

"By all means." Rahul inclined his head, smiling slowly. He rose from his seat. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything important. Will you keep me informed on any developments?"

Alejandro leaned back comfortably. "I'll consult Henry first, I think," he said.

"Then I'll send my men to you," Rahul said, nodding.

"That won't be necessary," Alejandro said, stopping Rahul as he made towards the door. His eyes were bright as he looked at the man in his study. "I think I'll simply call a favor from you some time, Mr. Rahul, if you don't mind?"

He obviously _did _mind, but refrained from saying anything but "Of course" before bowing out of the room. When he was gone, with the door shut soundly behind him, Alejandro simply couldn't help himself. He threw his head back and laughed long and hard.

.o00o.

Draco was reading something quite complicated and ridiculously affected, if his frown was anything to go by. Harry calmly deposited his coat on the sofa before them, glancing at the boy curiously. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it, satisfied with standing and smoking. Sensing the stare, Draco looked up at him with a sigh, narrowing his eyes on the cigarette. Harry took a very deep drag in response.

He wasn't sure why he was here. After the Ministry, Harry was planning to go visit Denny, who had returned to Tyler Manor, despite the damage. Usually, when he was running his errands (if that was an apt enough word), Harry very rarely stopped until they were done. It was part of the reason that first week he had spent with Damien hadn't really worried people. He was always _gone_ when he was gone. And moving – he was forever moving. But he'd stopped here before he had actually thought about it. It was a strange, lost feeling, doing something so out of character for him, and it had him properly stumped. That meant he was spacing out in front of Draco, who, by now, had raised an eyebrow in impatience.

He snapped back to the present, and gave the boy his best smile.

"How was the Ministry?" Draco drawled, sounding very much like Snape and Lucius all at once. Harry couldn't help but snigger.

"Positively dreadful," he said shortly. "The Minister is not very much of a Minister, you know. I would have thought a hardened Auror like him could handle the war a bit better than he has been." The way Harry spoke of Scrimgeour would never have been misheard as amiable.

Draco snorted, bookmarked his place in his book, and set it down. "Are you surprised, then? You shouldn't be, I don't think. Didn't you plan for our side to founder? His lack of command should have made you happy, I presumed."

"No," Harry said curtly, stubbing out his smoke. "No, that isn't my plan at all."

The plan had changed, but it was too new for Harry to tell Draco about. He would, eventually, he knew. Was it wrong that he trusted Draco with the information? He looked at the boy. Maybe.

Maybe not.

"I don't think I want to know what you've got going on in that pretty head of yours," Draco told him, rising to his feet.

Harry smiled. "So you don't want to know?" he teased.

From underneath his lashes, Draco glared at him as he fixed the cushions he had disturbed on the sofa. "I'll know when I know, won't I?" Draco griped lowly.

Laughing, he slipped on his coat again and tapped his pocket to make sure the wand was still there. Draco, watching his movements, asked, "Are you off again?"

Something about the way he said it filled Harry with warmth. Immediately after the feeling had taken hold of him, he flushed with mortification. What was he, five? _And of course Draco noticed_, he complained with a mental sigh. "I'm going to see Denny," he revealed, before pausing. "I just stopped by…to see—" he cleared his throat. "Do you wanna go?"

Draco smirked at him.

"Piss off," Harry said, flipping him the bird.

Regardless of his rather inelegant request, Draco went with him. The Portkey deposited them beside the Orchard, which had been turned over in the hopes of re-growth. Harry pointedly looked away from it as he moved towards the house. Next to him, Draco walked in time with his steps. In time with the limp that Harry had been trying to mind all day. A blush rose in Harry's cheeks, and he knew Draco had noticed when he reached out to hold onto Harry's wrist.

It felt a bit like a manacle, Draco's hand. Though it wasn't controlling, it didn't capture, and Harry was thankful for it. His touch burned with an understanding that was too impassive to hurt him, to embarrass him, and Harry briefly closed his eyes to savor the pleasure running through him. When they made it to the porch and Denny threw open the door, Draco's hand did not leave him.

It made him grin at Denny rather spectacularly. "'Lo, you old bastard," he greeted, shoving past Denny to get inside.

"Don't—_ah, bollocks_," Denny cursed him. "You've tracked mud all over the floor! You as well, Malfoy. Jesus. Mary'll have my head."

Draco looked particularly unconcerned about the mess he had made, which made Denny's exasperation turn into amusement. Harry shrugged at the mess as he hung up his coat, making to say something, but then Denny's words finally made sense in his mind.

"Mary?" he asked, frozen in shock.

Denny licked his lips and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. "Hen—" he began but was quickly cut off.

"Does she know I'm here? We should leave." He turned to Draco and snatched his coat back. "We should go."

"Now wait just a moment," Denny hollered, stopping Harry from shooting out the door. "John's here, and he—"

"He's _here_?" Harry croaked.

"Potter, you're embarrassing me," Draco said, closing the open front door with strict finality.

"He _wants_ to speak with you, Hen," Denny continued on, as if they hadn't interrupted him. "He heard about what happened with Evanward, and Cassie is here, so John's reckoning you can help them out a bit, what with her being a Wizard—"

"A Witch," Draco corrected him superciliously.

Denny glared at him. "Yeah, that," he said, turning back to his son. "He wants to see you, Hen. Mary can't…Well, you know she can't. Not right now. She's still trying to get past it. But John's been thinking about what happened…and well, I'll just have him talk with you, eh?"

"What a round-about way of saying something so simple," Draco slagged Denny, shaking his head with a scowl. "I see where your son gets his consummate wittering from."

Harry punched him rather hard on the arm. "Check yourself before you wreck yourself," he warned without heat.

Denny punched Harry. "No violence," he said. Not a moment later, Denny, who was reduced to fits of laughter at his own joke, quickly strode into the parlor as if to flee the hilarity he'd knowingly caused. Even Draco sniggered, though quietly.

They followed Denny's guffaws to the next room, where they sat as if guests on the, to Harry, familiar couch. Denny gave them an odd look before pointing to the alcohol and marching upstairs, likely to fetch John. Harry poured them both a thimble of scotch.

"What do I do with this, then?" Harry whispered to his companion.

Draco gazed at the drink skeptically before sipping at it. Harry threw his back and quickly refilled the glass. "You listen to what he has to say," Draco responded calmly. "You've got your friend back, it looks like. Don't muck it up."

"I don't mean to muck _anything_ up," he retorted defensively. "Wanker."

"Useless invalid."

Harry could have kissed him for it. Making light of it was _exactly _what he didn't know he wanted. He could have kissed Draco for knowing how to handle it before he did. So Harry did kiss him, and, while it didn't seem to surprise Draco, it amused him. He smirked against Harry's lips.

"All right, all right! _Separate_!" Denny shouted at them as he came back into the room. Harry did so, but not before a small breathy laugh escaped him. "Jesus, Hen, keep it in the bedroom. Have some decorum!"

"That's rich, Brooks," John said, suddenly there and watching them. "I think your idea of decorum is raping animals."

Draco coughed out a laugh.

John spared the blond a smile before turning to Harry, who was staring at him. "Hey, Sparky," he said.

"Hey," Harry greeted him in return. "I'm sorry."

The smile on his face turned soft and painful, but John dipped his head anyway. "I know," he acknowledged. "So am I."

"You beat the living shit out of me."

"You deserved it."

"I know."

Harry nodded a bit and looked away from John. They shared a very awkward, very small silence. Denny accidentally dropped the decanter of scotch to the floor and yelled, "Buggering fuck!"

And they were okay.

"So," John said when the mess had been handled. Sitting down on a chair, he smiled at Harry. "I think it's time for some good old-fashioned scheming."

"We always scheme," Denny said, putting his boots up on the table.

"I'm an excellent schemer." Draco smirked at them. "As Potter can attest."

"I can attest." Harry grinned. "What are we shooting for?"

John's smile turned dangerous, and his eyes flashed with glee. "Frank _McAllister_."

.o00o.

_Harry-_

_Please come quick. I don't know where you've gone, but mum's gotten hurt. She was in Diagon, and there was a scuffle of some kind. We're at St. Mungo's. I don't know what to do. Ron needs you. Please._

_-Ginny_

.o00o.

_Ginny-_

_I know. I felt it. I'm coming. Tell Ron I'll be there._

_She'll be okay. She has to be._

_-Harry_


	16. Chapter Fifteen

A/n: Sorry this is late! But hey... cherry bombs. Twizzlers. Yeah. *Thumbs up* Thanks to everyone who lent me some support last week. You awesome people, you.

A Few Responses: Ana: Damn, stupid construction workers. They're always fucking around somewhere in my neighborhood. Tearing up streets and demolishing buildings and cutting phone lines. How annoying. Anyway, thank you for the love, but no I'm really not feeling very fabulous. How are you? Want a drink? I'm gonna have another drink in your honor. No, I'm sorry, Ana, I lied. I'm going to have another drink because I want one. :( love you!

Act V: Thanks for the asphyxiating hugs, love. I appreciate them! To be honest, my OTP is Snarry. It wasn't the first pairing I read, and I've never written it, but there's an almost uncontrollable love inside of me for that pairing. That's OTP. Now, DH is a good pairing, sure, but it's gotten...flat in the last few years. I try to spice it up in my stories, of course, but no ones perfect and fanficcers...complain. A lot. Voldemort/Harry also used to be one of my favorites. Now I mostly route for Snarry, Gen fic, and a healthy dose of Harry/random person. I'm not picky. Whoa, tangent.

AL, fanfic wouldn't let me reply to your review. It kept saying that I already had! Fanfic is drunk! Just know that I love you and I'm now going to off my computer in a fit of madness.

Dedication: Thanks, as always, to the brilliant and beautiful _**Amazonia**_ for looking this over so meticulously. Adoration!

Warnings for this chapter: angst, graphic slash, bad language, mentions of violence, and you know, other stuff.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Fifteen

St. Mungo's was crowded full of panicked people. He traveled down the anfractuous, bustling halls, pushing past the clamoring healers and patients to get to the receptionist. She was quite bogged down with numerous visitors who were impatiently demanding information on their loved ones, and Harry gave up talking to her in the mad hubbub around him. It was a stark change from the quiet dread of the Ministry, but only in the fact that the hysteria had taken hold rather than the silent ache at the government. He stood to the side and watched a woman – wealthy, it appeared, based upon her attire – cry over what seemed to be her teenage son. The boy was bleeding badly, and his face was as pale as the walls of the hospital.

An extraordinary feeling rose up inside of him. Something as powerful as it was rare, and Harry closed his eyes briefly to try and define it. It felt a lot like anguish, but not the terrible, empty echo of loss. Being less raw, more sympathetic in nature, was an emotion Harry was awfully unfamiliar with. Along with this ugly compassion, there was anxiety. Concern for Mrs. Weasley and something very irrational and unfounded. He felt as though these people would turn as one, to stare through him, and see that the cause of their hardship was before them. He thought that they might just rip him apart. _If they knew_, Harry thought, leaning from the chaos and slowly turning away. When_ they know… I'll try to be sorry. _He thought that it was the only promise he could make at the moment.

Harry was able to sense where Mrs. Weasley was being held, and he set off in the direction of the lift. The trip upstairs and the uncertain search for the right room had been accomplished in a daze. Before he knew it, he was outside the Spell Damage ward, listening to the hushed sounds of conversation, the speakers' voices very familiar.

"Dad said _not_ to—!" said someone who simply couldn't be any one else but Ron.

"I don't care," Ginny snapped waspishly. "He's as much a part of this family as any of us are. He deserved to know. And you want him here, Ron; don't even think of saying otherwise!"

"Dad was pretty serious, Gin," Fred said, or was it George? "You know Chris, he'll want to see mum—"

"And then you'll be in a bit of trouble, sis," George finished.

He could see Ginny's face in his mind's eye, red with indignation as her brothers teemed up on her without delicacy – as brothers were wont to do. She would be frothing in a moment, and, though it had amused Harry and the rest of the Weasley children many a time, it had ceased being funny once Ginny had gotten a wand. He made to open the door, but another voice stopped him.

"Don't you mean _Harry_," a girl said, her tone sharp with disdain. "He doesn't go by your pet name for him anymore. In fact, he pays very little attention to his _supposed_ family at all. It's a wonder you still consider him such."

Judging by the long silence, her scathing comment had shocked the group. Finally, Ron cleared his throat loudly and said, "That's not on, Hermione. Harry's my best mate. He's just got a lot to do, is all."

"Oh, yes, I'm _sure_ he does," Hermione responded heatedly. "How you're all blind to what a heinous person he is, I will never understand. He's a murderer and a sociopath, and _that's_ probably why your dad doesn't want to see him! Look what he's done to your mother—!"

"Hermione!" Ginny yelled, loud and positively furious. "You stop it, right now!"

"'Mione, come on, don't—" Ron began to intercede, but there was a noise, like someone had shoved another aside, and a small, startled yelp.

"You don't want to listen to me. Fine!" Hermione said, and it was muffled, as if she were speaking through clenched teeth. "But you're all worse off for knowing him. You'll realize it eventually, even if it takes your family being _murdered_ for you to know I'm right!"

An enraged shout. "You _bitch_!"

"Oi, Ginny, stop it!"

"Leave off, Gin!"

"You tell that bloody girlfriend of yours to watch her stupid mouth!"

The sound of a door opening ceased the fracas immediately. "What's all this, then?" Arthur Weasley asked, his tone decidedly solemn and uncharacteristically edgy.

"Nothing, dad," Ron piped up, clearing his throat. "It's nothing. Mum? Is she all right?"

There was a very heavy silence as the Weasley children and Hermione (and Harry as well, in the privacy of the hallway), waited on tenterhooks for Arthur to speak. Harry's body was stiff and his breathing deep and silent.

"She'll be all right," Arthur told them. Following his announcement, there was a collective sigh of relief. Though it wasn't audible – rather, Harry felt as though tension had drained from the entire third floor of the hospital. He leaned his head back against the wall and breathed.

"I'm taking her home now," Mr. Weasley continued. "Kingsley will take you back to Hogwarts, Hermione, Ron, Ginny. Fred, George—"

"We're going back home, dad," one of the twins said.

"No," he said rather severely. "No, your mother needs rest. I need you to tell the rest of the family as well. Tell them she will be fine, but it will take a few days of bed rest and quiet for that to happen. I'll not have her disturbed."

Wary of this new side to their father that was seldom (if ever) seen, the children agreed without further dispute. The deep voice of Kingsley came upon them moments later, and Harry heard Ron and Ginny soberly say goodbye to their father. There was no mistaking the happiness in Ron's tone at his mother's health, and Ginny's voice held just as much relieved joy as her brother's, though it was laced with barely hidden resentment that was the debris of her fight with Hermione. Once they were whisked away, Fred and George took up conversation with Arthur.

"What happened, dad?"

Arthur sighed, and there was a creak of a chair as he collapsed into it. "Your mother was caught in a skirmish outside of Flourish and Blotts. One man had accused another of carrying a Muggle weapon. That caused a disturbance from the other Wizards in the ally, since everyone is already paranoid. Everything was exaggerated, and your mum was caught in it. She fell and hit her head. She sprained her ankle, but that was fixed rather quickly. What she needs is rest. She's not… as young as she used to be, and Molly… It scared her, a fair bit, I'd say."

They were quiet for a while until, eventually, one of the twins asked, so quietly Harry almost didn't catch it, "Did you not want Harry here because of it?"

"Why?" Arthur immediately responded. "Did someone Owl him?"

"Ginny."

Another long sigh. "I can't blame her for it," he said. "Harry would be worried. I was rather surprised not see him here with you all, to be honest." He let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

"Ginny did Owl him. Suppose he was busy, maybe."

"But dad, are we going to—"

"No," Arthur said, in a whip-through interruption. "No, we won't be doing _anything._"

Harry could tell that Arthur was angry. Hell, it was hard not to notice. It was such a different emotion for the man that every word out of his mouth seemed to be uttered by an aggressive, domineering doppelganger instead, set out to ruin the image of placidity and kindliness that Arthur Weasley wore so very well. Harry, shamefacedly, could not ever recall thinking of Mr. Weasley as a Wizard, or even someone who could hold their own. He was simply there, as a father, a friend, and a husband, but never _there _as a guardian and fierce protector of his family.

It made Harry feel rather guilty because he had often complimented Mr. Weasley on being a superb father, but he hadn't considered all the responsibilities that being a wonderful dad came with, such as ordering his children _away_ as their mother recovered and sternly and strongly directing Fred and George on what _not_ to do about Harry.

"All right," the twins agreed amiably. "We'll talk to everyone else. Take care of mum, dad."

It was an unnecessary statement, but no one seemed to mind. Suddenly, movement towards the door alerted Harry to the twins' approach, and he quickly but silently walked down the hall. Once he had reached the small tuck-away space beside another ward, he waited until he heard the twins clamber into the lift, feverishly speaking in whispers. He leaned against the wall there and ran through the options he had at hand.

He could respect Arthur Weasley's request, as he had done all summer and through the school year, and stay away from the Burrow. The man's decision to do nothing about Harry suggested his avoidance would be welcome. However, the sure fact that Mr. Weasley knew at least something (enough to ruin everything for Harry if he spoke) unsettled him greatly. In fact, it was Harry's biggest conundrum, at present.

In the past, there were two ways Harry dealt with the two kinds of people who knew, either those who had figured out something very important about him and had not accepted, or the people like Waffling, who understood more than others, and had chosen to not know in order to escape death. For Harry, his choices were limited to erasing the memory completely or disposing of the person as quickly as possible. He never tarried on his decision, either.

Yet Mr. Weasley posed an entirely different alternative. Harry was loathe to mess with the man's memories, since his respect for Mr. Weasley knew no bounds. And violating Mr. Weasley's mind had never been on Harry's list of priorities. Too many things could go wrong, and, though Harry wasn't alarmed at harming Waffling, or Lupin, he was very hesitant to try with Mr. Weasley. The man's lack of choice in the matter bothered Harry as well. He wouldn't do it by force, and there was a high probability Arthur would not accept mind modification, and so...that was unlikely to be done.

That left killing Mr. Weasley to keep him silent. Involuntarily, Harry shuddered. Neither of them would recover from that particular action. Harry's already wavering control would not survive it; in fact, the option was nigh on unthinkable. He found that it hurt to ponder it. _No,_ Harry decided as he leaned down to rub his sore leg, _no, I can't kill him._ And bollocks what it would do to the Weasley family, it would hurt Harry too much to bear. It was not an option and never would be one.

But that posed a problem of the emotional kind. Harry could let sleeping dogs lie and proceed with everything as planned. He could respect Mr. Weasley's need for Harry to remain at a distance, and, in effect, the man would do exactly as he said he would: nothing. This way, the problem sorted itself out quite efficiently. Yet, he found that there was a fear inside of him that had little to do with Arthur knowing too much and changing his mind on keeping mum. A fear that was tinged with anguish and dejection at the thought that he was no longer welcome among his first family.

_And that's the rub, isn't it?_ Harry thought to himself rather sorrowfully.

The decision came at him from out of nowhere, a rogue wave of determination that could not be stopped.

He had to talk to Mr. Weasley, to explain himself. To beg re-admittance into his good graces. To plead mercy for the first time and for the strangest of reasons. Reasons that had everything to do with his knew appreciation for bonds between others. Between his family, his friends, and his lover. None of which truly bothered Harry because he could accept that he needed tolerance and understanding from them. He could not, and would not, accept their abandonment of him.

Not this family, and not again.

Before he knew it, he was striding towards the lift, taking the same route Fred and George had favored, to leave for the Burrow. To be there waiting when Arthur Weasley returned home. And he hoped, rather impossibly, that he was ready to face opposition and accusation from his first real father.

.o00o.

"I don't know how I feel about being bait."

Denny turned to John, who was seated on the sofa beside him in a sprawl that suggested he'd been thrown there by force. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the whiney American as, with a cursory glance at the kitchen, where Mary was cooking supper, he set his boots up on the table. It wouldn't do to have her hollering at him again.

"You agreed at the time, mate," he said to John, grimacing when his stomach rumbled for food. The smell of hot stew made it hard to concentrate. "Henry will want you to leave when the time comes, anyway."

John shifted in his seat and tossed his head a bit, to show he was peeved that Denny would mention it _again_. "I won't," he said. "This is as much my fight as it is his."

His attention fully on John now, for he had thought of another subject to speak about while the man was sulking, Denny licked his lips and rubbed a hand across his chin. "Have you given any thought to Henry's proposal?" he asked, hesitantly.

The man turned away in an obvious refusal to look at him, and Denny's frown took up much of his previously calm expression. Their plan was simple, or as simple as Henry would let it be. At the moment, there was nowhere safer than Tyler Manor, for Henry had done some tinkering with the Wards so that the place was practically impossible to get in or out of. They were being watched, however, and Denny wasn't very surprised. It was Frank's grudge against Denny they were playing on, but this trap of sorts would be set on their terms, rather than McAllister's, this time. The Wards would drop as soon as Henry gave the word, and, quickly and efficiently, they would take Frank when he showed up to dispose of Denny.

Though he was keener on drawing out the man's death – as was John, for permissible reasons, surely – he would not linger on the death of his old friend any more than he had to. As Henry had warned them, things needed to be finished before they couldn't be finished at all. It was a grave statement, to be sure, but a truthful one, nonetheless.

Having hashed out the details in their meeting the day before, Denny was feeling better about what they had planned. At first, he'd debated the merits of it simply because too many things could go wrong. Not to mention the lack of manpower they had against how _much_ power Frank had. They expected quite a few men to have to deal with, and though two fully-trained men and one Wizard could likely take care of the job, there was no telling how many guns Frank had acquired that they couldn't hope to match. But Henry promised something new. Henry promised a conclusion.

The determination in his son's eyes was frightful, but familiar. Denny had seen that same look when Henry had first invented the guns. That creative, unmanageable impetus Henry had when an idea had struck was flagrant and reassuring. Something big was afoot in Henry's mind, and Denny knew this event to only result in either disaster or a perfect ending. While the "device" (as Henry had so vaguely supplied in their bid for more information) was still in production, Denny and John had weeks to wait.

Weeks of impatient introspection and redundant conversation, it seemed. For Denny, there was quite a lot to think about, but nothing too heavy plagued his thoughts. For John, and for Mary, there were more detrimental worries at hand. Henry, in a very blunt and unmerciful way, had suggested that Mary and Cassie be completely and utterly taken out of the equation. It was a logical move indeed, but the consequences were hard to fully comprehend.

Henry had suggested they be Obliviated. Which meant, in layman's terms, that the memories Mary and Cassie had of John and everything to do with the war would be erased. His son had been quick to point out that it could be reversed, but the outright horror in John's eyes hadn't dimmed. The subject had been heavy on their minds for the past two days. A rip-roaring fight, between John and Mary, had come of it the previous night, and Denny had listened from his perch on the sofa in the parlor, sitting next to their precocious daughter. Cassie asked him a number of questions (and by a number, Denny meant thousands of _useless_, off-the-wall queries that only children could come up with) as her parents had fought and made up.

Mary had refused Henry's offer, and though John was just as terrified of losing his family, if even for a short while, he had argued in favor of the idea. But he hadn't fought it much, and Denny had a sneaking suspicion the man was too in love with his family to let them go. Especially not when one daughter had been taken away from him already.

Which was why he had brought the subject up in the first place, now, to show he _hadn't _been eavesdropping the night before (no, sir, not Denny), and that he was interested to hear the truth from John. The truth from a father and husband who was swiftly going down the same road Denny had.

"I don't really want to think about it," John answered him gruffly, as if telling Denny, in a round-about way, to shove off.

Denny scratched his head. "Yeah, well, you've got the time to consider it," he acknowledged. "But Henry'll want an answer soon enough."

"Henry can go fuck himself," he snapped, slouching a bit more in his seat.

"You don't mean that," Denny told him, bristling a bit but able to understand John's anger. "He's offering you a great service, here, McKye. I'd appreciate it, even though you'll probably refuse."

John threw his head back and released a huff of frustration. "Can't you say my name right? Mick-Kay. Mick-_Kay_. Not Mick-_Kye_."

"Mickey?"

"No."

"Mick Kay?"

"Right."

"Sorry, there, McKye."

John launched himself out of his seat, cursing madly, before he lunged toward the kitchen. "God, you and Henry both…drive me up the fucking wall," he said angrily.

Denny grinned. "Apples and trees, mate. Apples and trees," he teased before he was left to his own mocking laughter.

There would be time yet to make John McKay understand. Denny had been selfish with David, with his own wife, long ago, when, against all odds, he had wanted a family. He'd treasured his wife and son just as much as he'd neglected them. But selfishness had bade Denny not to give them up. Selfishness had killed them. And, in Denny's defense against that pain occurring again, he had failed Henry by being lenient, by fighting his feelings. His worst fear, now, was that his son would die just as the first had, because Denny was selfish and had wanted them despite the circumstances. Had ignored the love that came so easily between other fathers and other sons. A good father would mend the mistake as best as he could, and Denny found that the only way to do so would be to continue his unwavering support for Henry. To fight alongside him.

A good man would tell John that he needed to send Mary and Cassie away, despite how agonizing it would be and how fucking hypocritical it was for Denny to suggest it. Because there was a lot that could go wrong in the next few weeks, and they couldn't afford one more oversight.

Not one.

.o00o.

The Burrow was still in the oncoming dusk. It painted the walls around him in orange and red, a low-light before the world faded into darkness. It was not yet night enough to light candles, but he found them already flickering in time with the fire in the fireplace, which had lit up the den in green when he'd emerged through it. With his hand around Molly's waist, Arthur made sure she wouldn't fall over and raised a hand to wipe away some soot from her cheek. Tenderly, she smiled at him, but it was a tired, weighted expression that pained Arthur when he saw it.

"Molly, dear," he whispered to her. "Let me lift you."

She had thought she was well enough to walk on her own, but Floo'ing had taken its toll on his injured wife. Molly swayed against him briefly before nodding her assent. Without trouble, without staggering, Arthur braced a hand beneath her knees and she rose up in his arms to fit there comfortably. He touched their noses quietly.

The stairs were no trouble, and he made it to their room without tiring. He set her down on the bed, noticing but not acknowledging the candles already lit around them. Arthur shifted her legs beneath the sheets, carefully adjusting the pillow behind her head. He brushed hair out of her exhausted face, and kissed her briefly and gently. The room was warm enough, and the candles would serve a comfort to Molly should she wake. He left the door open, just a crack, and then made his way back down the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a boy.

Arthur had expected it.

Harry was standing, one leg on the bottom step, one firmly planted on the ground. He was staring up at Arthur, eyes wide with caution and worry. In his face, there was the question "is she okay?" and, in his body, there was the statement "you have something to say to me." He gazed down at the boy expressionlessly, taking a moment to look at him. He realized he hadn't looked at Harry in a very long time.

Those eyes nearly disarmed him. They were the same green that had gazed at him inquisitively the first night they had met. As if to ask "now that you have me, what will you do with me?"The same green of the little boy he'd found camped in his shed, ages upon ages ago, it seemed. Grown up into a man that Arthur did not know. Could not know.

There was an awful tiredness, an anxious pain in Harry's eyes now. Just as Arthur had expected him to be there, at The Burrow, Harry was expecting exactly what Arthur wanted to say. In this, at least, they had forewarning and understanding.

"Is…is she—" Harry began in barely a whisper. His voice was rough and gravelly. A hand, long-fingered and big-knuckled, reached out to touch nothing. A common sign of begging, a plea for mercy.

Arthur did not deign to answer. He moved down the stairs at a lax pace, and Harry skittered to the side to let him through. He noticed the jostling of a bad leg right away, but, though he was curious, he found he wasn't very sympathetic. Harry's eyes, set in a handsome, charming face made for breaking hearts, moved left and right as if to find an evasion of some kind, and Arthur briefly wondered why the boy would show up at his house if he wasn't ready for the inevitable. And yet, Arthur couldn't blame him as much as he wanted to.

"Come," he said gently, gesturing to the den. He moved forward, hearing the misstep that came with the limp Harry had, and settled down in his chair. Arthur waited for the boy to sit.

Harry stared at him. "I owe you an explanation," he said, quietly so as to not bother Mrs. Weasley.

Arthur watched him fiddle with his hands. "Don't apologize to me. I won't be able to keep my temper if you do," Arthur warned him.

There was an audible swallow from Harry, but he nodded in agreement with the request. "You remember the day I came to you," Harry said to him, averting his eyes. "The day in this room, when Mrs. Weasley decided I was one of your own."

Arthur hummed in concurrence.

"Please don't push me away," Harry whispered, looking up at him imploringly. "Your family means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me. And I know I don't show it, much, rarely, but I'm being honest now. Please don't push me away."

He licked his lips and continued to meet that green gaze without fear. "While you're being honest, I'd like to ask why you did it," he said cuttingly.

Harry flinched at the insult, but didn't let it deter him. He was silent for a moment, however, weighing his words, no doubt, and Arthur was not about to let the boy figure out lies to tell if Arthur was indulgent. "_Now_, Harry," he demanded, as he would one of his own children.

Quickly, Harry's eyes shot to him and shuttered a bit in pain. _Yes,_ _Harry_, Arthur thought to himself unrepentantly, _I won't let you lie anymore. _

"Do you know why the Dursleys left me in London?" the boy blurted, then winced a little at the foreword statement. Harry seemed to resolve himself to push on, however, because he immediately dove into an account. "I burned down their house. I didn't mean to, of course, it was Accidental Magic. The night that it happened, I had a dream of sorts. In the dream, there was a meadow, and a shadow in it, and it was nighttime and all, but the moon was out, so everything was very bright. Anyway, the shadow was talking to me, and it told me to fix things. I didn't really understand it, not until I was older. But it told me to fix things no matter the consequences. To do it through any means possible."

The boy's voice had tapered upon seeing Arthur's disbelieving face. He did nothing to hide it. Harry had _seen_ something? It was normal for Wizards to practice divination through dreams, though it wasn't much of an accurate ritual. Some Wizards, particularly the powerful ones, were able to gaze far into the future. But the future was always changing, so not many depended or trusted the vacillating magic. Speaking in foretelling dreams, however, indeed a spoken form of divination, smacked of a prophecy. And prophecies, when heard, always lead to something vast.

"There was a fire, in the meadow, and it burned everything. When I woke up, there was a fire in my cupboard too, and well, the Dursleys weren't happy with me, so they kicked me out. Left me in the middle of London. I don't really blame them, I don't think," Harry continued, when it seemed Arthur would remain silent.

He found he would not be able to speak, even if he wanted to. Prophecies always lead to something vast. Always, soon after they were made and heard. Always. A fire, a decision by a family to leave their only nephew to die on the streets, a boy who had survived against all odds to become something great. That was _prophecy_. Arthur found himself frightened of what had been said to the little boy in the cupboard. If it had resulted in this massive war, this revelation of men and Wizards, what else had the shadow said to lead them into such death and destruction? Most of all, Arthur wanted to know the conclusion.

What warning did the future give them, and how was it supposed to end?

"After they left me," the boy went on, "I lived in a way I don't believe many people understand. All I can say is that it was both the best and the worst thing for me. I learned to live, really live, to survive through anything that was thrown my way. But I also learned that living is a lot like dying, when you're so low almost nothing can pull you back up. I was lucky. I found your family, and Denny and Tyler. I was very lucky. But it's my worst fear, being like that. Being someone who no one would notice was dead. The problem, I think – where I went wrong – is that, though now people will notice, I can bet on them being happy about it."

The boy was feeling sorry for himself, that much was apparent. Arthur supposed Harry had a small right to self-pity, but it was a miniscule allowance. Interested to see where Harry's story began and ended, he casually crossed his fingers over his stomach and waited for the boy to proceed.

"The Dursleys..." Harry said, going back to his first train of thought. "They were pretty awful. Just...you know, not good people. They never fed me or anything, and they mostly ignored me. I hate being ignored. I hate it."

He could see that the boy's hands were shaking. "When Denny took me in, I'd already killed a man. He was in my spot, and I was territorial, you know, because it was _my _place to kip...not his. Anyway, I'd killed him and a few other boys, who'd tried to mug me one night. I didn't regret it. I didn't want to take it anymore. People couldn't hurt me any longer because I wouldn't let them."

But growing numb to others had made Harry desperate for attention, for someone to pull him out of it or simply sink him deeper. To justify the terrible price of sheer neglect; to guarantee a little boy that the loneliness he felt was as trivial as he wanted it to be. Arthur understood more than Harry knew.

"My life with Tyler and Denny was good," Harry continued. "They were there for me, most of the time, even when I didn't need them. That night, that I got myself banged up, I don't know if I ever told you...it bonded me to your family. It made me sure I could never let you go. You remember that night."

Arthur did. Harry's eyes were on him again, bright and sorrowful as he recollected the pain he had gone through. The disgusting violence of the Muggles that had nearly killed the child. The incident made Arthur more and more curious as to why Harry would begin a war of incredible destruction, having seen the iniquity of others first hand. And yet, maybe _that_ was just another event in favor of the war he had started? He reckoned it had truly only served to fuel the terrible fire.

"That night, I realized what the dream meant. I had to fix a world that would accept that I'd been hurt. And death worked. Pain worked. I had to hurt them and destroy them, before I could help them."

"This is the same world that gave you my family. That gave you Denny Brooks," Arthur reminded him, rather coldly.

Harry flinched. "I know that now," he murmured. "I didn't before, but I do now." _Now, when it's too late_, was the unspoken addition to Harry's defense. Arthur heard it loud and clear. "I figured I needed a form of destruction nearly incomprehensible to both Muggles and Wizards. I favored guns, at the time, and so I modified one. The prototype you were inspecting at the Ministry, that was mine-and I'm sorry. I know how much flack you'll get when it gets out. For knowing that I invented it, and all. I'll clear you, I promise."

Arthur was speechless, and his horror must have shown on his face, because Harry hurriedly continued. "The guns were a success. But I needed to get people together to fight a world they didn't know about. I couldn't go through the government, they'd put me down, you know. I had to go to the worst people possible. Those able to forget their scruples and commit sometimes unspeakable crimes. There was no other option but the crime lords. I'd grown up in their environment as well, I knew how they worked. All I had to do was promise them _power_. That and destruction."

The boy closed his eyes briefly. "I had to destroy the world to start it over, you see? A clean slate. And maybe, somewhere, there would be a _reason_ for things. I did it for them, for everyone, I promise you," Harry told him, his body tensed and his face pale.

And Arthur believed him, though he wished he didn't.

"They got away from me. The lords, I mean. My generals. I don't have control over the war anymore. But I'm going to fix it, I will. This can end-"

"Not without someone to blame," Arthur snapped. "Not without a reason."

Harry nodded. "I know," he said, painfully and slowly. "I know."

They were silent then, and Arthur remained still in his chair but did not look at the boy across from him. With his head finally wrapped around the information coming at him, Arthur abruptly decided something. Despite the prophecy, there was always a choice of whether or not to follow the future. Harry had fulfilled the words all by himself, and the reaping now was no ones fault but his. That much, he imagined, both Harry and Arthur understood.

He could not condone Harry's actions. Not for any prophecy, not for the circumstances that had destroyed a little boy. And though his acceptance was something Harry obviously needed, Arthur wouldn't give it to him. And though the words would hurt them both, Arthur had his family to think about. His Molly was hurt, not because of Harry directly, but because of the choices he had made to start a war he could not control. The blame, though not entirely on the boy in front of him, was set upon Harry enough to make Arthur choose between his loved ones and the young man who believed he had done wrong, but all for the sake of right. Arthur could see that Harry didn't regret the war, even though it was the one thing he should want to take back.

"I don't want you to be glad I'm gone," Harry told him. "Please—"

"You can kill me, if you want," Arthur cut him off quietly, curtly.

Harry's mouth went slack in alarm, in rejection, and Arthur (though wanting to) did not look away. "I can't kill you," Harry breathed.

"I can't accept you," he said.

There was a despair in the boy's eyes that scared Arthur greatly. For the first time, he wondered at the capacity of strength Harry held within him. He wondered when it had begun to leak, like the worrisome stability of men sailing in a sieve, and whether or not Harry was prepared (in all of his own determination and narrow-minded need) to take his own life to escape the consequences. Why suicide seemed so apt for this boy was baffling but so suited that it shook Arthur to his very core. He would never want to provoke the boy to his death, but every part of him revolted against what Harry had done.

"I'm sorry," he finally spoke. Sincerely, for he was so very sorry. "I can't accept you. I thought, at first, that your decisions for war were based upon anger. A terrible anger for the world that did little to help you. Somehow this is worse, Chris, because you believe you're doing good. I can't accept it."

He stood. The conversation had gone on long enough, and Molly was waiting for him, injured and afraid. His family needed their father. Arthur was hurting as he watched Harry look up at him, lost and devastated by his words. He was struck with the image. Harry had never been more of a little boy than he was now.

"Stay away from my family," Arthur said, sealing everything that had passed between them. His chest clenched in agony as the boy he had tried his best to look after rose from his seat and fled. Harry hobbled toward the fireplace, his face hidden, but Arthur could readily picture the destroyed grimace.

When the fire flared and Harry had gone, he collapsed back into his chair and dropped his head into his hands. He sobbed until his worry for his wife overrode his despair, and, even then, when he joined her on their bed, assured that the boy wouldn't return and his family would be safe, Arthur couldn't help but mourn the loss of his son.

.o00o.

Draco turned to the fire as it burst to life. The warm tea in his hand, as well as the book he was currently slogging through, were set down. Though fascinating, the language was quite flowery to the point of sickness, and he had no interest in focusing on it at the present moment. Not when Harry had just come into the room, his eyes bloodshot and his skin looking as pale as death. He neatly unfolded himself from the sofa and rose to his feet, staring.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and down his cheek, dragging the skin in a violent movement that said he was not at all alright. He could tell that Harry's leg was bothering him immediately, for he was favoring one leg over the other and bouncing a bit to stay balanced. His green eyes, which Draco enjoyed seeing any time of day, were clouded in sheer anguish.

Not even when Bo died had Harry been as aware of pain as he was now, and it made Draco worried. He moved forward with a determined stride and gripped the boy's arm tightly. Submissively letting Draco lower him into a chair, Harry dropped his head completely and refused to look up. He knew his lover would talk when he was good and ready, so, in the meantime, Draco went to fetch ice. When Draco returned, the cold compress bundled underneath an arm, he saw that Harry had not moved in the time that he had been gone.

Gently, Draco coaxed Harry to lay horizontally, stretching out his bad leg on the sofa. Once his pants were banished, Draco looked down at the well-formed and seemingly healthy limb and gently gathered the ice to place at the knee. Harry hissed at the cold, the first sound he'd made since returning home. Draco kneaded the muscles, watching the sparse curly black hairs on Harry's leg with patient fascination. There was a long, thin scar across Harry's knee – the only evidence of the curse that prevented full healing in the injury. It was inflamed, the scar tissue jutting up like a bloody spine, and he lightly ran a cool finger across it before replacing the compress and lathering his hands in lotion. Harry shuddered.

His massage loosened quite a bit of tension, and he was pleased when Harry bent his rather skinny leg forward and then down again, to stretch what kinks were left. Draco's cold hands did plenty of good, to his leg and to his head, and finally, those beautiful green eyes slitted in relaxation and positioned themselves on him.

"Am I at fault for all of it?" Harry asked so quietly Draco almost didn't hear it.

It wasn't too odd of a question to ask, considering where Harry had just come back from. Draco predicted the Weasleys would be quick to blame the boy. During the search for Harry, when he was missing, Arthur Weasley and his twin boys had accompanied Denny Brooks to ask their various Muggle connections for information, and Draco had watched them leave with something like resignation. Out in the world where Denny Brooks and Henry Brooks belonged, it was different, and it was telling. Harry's rather anxious demeanor before rushing to St. Mungos had more to do with Arthur Weasley than worry for the man's wife. Not that the boy hadn't had kittens when he'd felt the alarm go off. But, since something must have alerted Harry that it wasn't life-threatening, all of his fear was likely for the confrontation with Mr. Weasley. He was glad, at least, that Harry hadn't been caught off guard.

Draco took a while to answer, and so Harry grabbed his hand, which had been resting immobile on his massaged thigh, and jostled it. He looked down at Harry's pale face.

"No," he said. "You can't be blamed for everything."

Harry blinked. "I know others who would say otherwise," he protested rather meekly.

Draco shook his leg. "Have you ever thought that they said it so as to knock you down a peg? You used to be intolerably full of yourself, you know. It was dreadfully annoying."

"I know it's my fault."

"A little of it, Potter."

Harry moved his unsettling gaze away. "I used to be invincible," he said, more to himself than to Draco.

"You never were," Draco told him.

Long, uncut black hair moved in accord. "And now?" he whispered.

"Now," Draco thought out loud, "now you're good."

And it was somehow exactly what Harry needed to hear. His face crumpled, briefly, both in pain and happiness. Draco knew that this was a part of healing, for Harry hadn't yet let go of the despair and anger that had come with loss. And another one so soon was close to shaking away the healing they had already done.

Draco moved very suddenly. He pulled Harry's legs forward, wrapping them around his waist as he leaned in to stare at him face to face. Harry breathed out slowly, and he was soundly kissed in the next moment. They kept their eyes open.

Skin was everywhere that Draco looked. Rough and soft, in alternating degrees, like sand on a beach full of shells and gentle waves. He ran his tongue down the arm around his neck, grinding down until there was no restraint left inside of him. Draco slipped off Harry's boxers and gazed with pleasure-filled eyes at the loveliness before him. He dropped to his knees, taking Harry into his mouth. He clutched the bunching, twitching thighs as Harry arched his pelvis upward.

Slowly, without haste, Draco savored Harry's taste until wetness peeked out of the soft tip, until Harry was on the edge of release. He moved down and widened the boy's legs, pulling him closer as he sunk his tongue into Harry's entrance. Writhing in waves, Harry tipped his head back and moaned as Draco breezed in and out of the shuddering pucker, teasing Harry with things to come. He gathered a bit of lotion into his hand and glanced up as he inserted two fingers quickly.

Harry gasped and moaned as his legs automatically tightened around Draco's upper body. Another finger was added, faster this time, because he was suddenly not at all keen on taking Harry softly. That hurry and heat brought him up and abruptly in, and he watched Harry toss his head back in both slight discomfort and immense pleasure. Draco could not help but think, as he undulated forward, that this was Harry at his most beautiful.

Back and forth he rocked, feeling the slide of his slick skin catch and release in the tight walls surrounding him. Every part of his organ was touched and revered there, and, in a way, it was as if Harry was repaying the skilled massage Draco had given him with one of his own. One that burned and soothed just the same. Each motion forward brought Harry into babbling throes, sensitive as he was to penetration. This time, however, when Harry's eyes met his, shining with complete and utter lust, they were mixed with a surprising expression that took Draco's breath away.

Fondness. A remarkable fondness for him that he knew was reflected in his own gaze.

He moved faster, the edges of the coffee table hitting his heels, and he drove in and up without stopping. Beneath him, Harry's body quivered and arched, and with one great thrust and a tiny scream from his partner, Draco climaxed. Quickly, before his orgasm was finished, he pulled out and knelt again, shoving his fingers into Harry and thrusting them in so hard Harry's body sunk into the sofa. With a surprised shout, Harry came just as Draco finished his own peak.

When the heat of their coupling had receded, a coldness settled on his sweaty skin, raising goose bumps along his arms. He removed Harry's lax legs from around his torso and shifted him so he was laying down once more. Harry's panting finally quieted as Draco stood and lowered himself on top of the boy. Their legs entwined, and he rested his head on Harry's collarbone.

They breathed. Hands ran through his hair, then they sunk into his skull with a harsh though painless grip, and he raised his head up to meet those eyes.

"I have to stay away from them," Harry said sadly. "He told me to stay away."

Draco took a moment to answer, settling his chin on Harry's chest as he thought. He ran his tongue across his lips and did his best to look utterly ostentatious while in such a position.

"More for me, then," he sneered.

Harry's laugh, as rare as it was now, was worth his being sentimental.

.o00o.

When he woke the next morning, there was a cup of tea on the table and the morning's _Daily Prophet_. Harry rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he stood, completely naked, next to the couch he and Draco had slept on the previous night. A blanket had been thrown over him, and, though he had been warm enough sleeping there, he was a bit disappointed to find Draco gone. There was no note beside the tea – not that he expected one – and Harry could guess fairly accurately where Draco was at that time of the morning. _With surly, old, buggering Snape_, Harry thought crossly. _Big bloody surprise_.

He was not in a good mood at all that morning, as was obvious, and it was about to get worse, it looked like. The headline in the _Daily Prophet _screamed ill news, like it had all of the long months during the war, but this particular story caught Harry's interest and held it. Diagon Alley, it seemed, had been deposed by a Muggle army late last night. The shops, as well as the Leaky Cauldron, were now under Muggle control. The loss of the Alley, not to mention the seizure of Gringotts, which had been holding onto its last legs after the goblins had abandoned their jobs, was a large blow for the Wizards. The casualties were few, but the biggest concern posed in the article was not about what this loss would mean for the country's morale, it was instead about the financial: the really important issue was the money that was lost to the Muggles when the Alley had fallen.

It was no secret the English Ministry of Magic was in debt. The resources used for the Second War with Voldemort alone had put them in a hole with the Americas. Though the World War they were at now was a joint effort, England had been one of the first countries to suffer a severe loss. In the works and to be instated soon were rationing and the heavier taxation of both the old pureblood and independently wealthy families. None of them would decrease the major deficit in the Ministry. With the capture of Gringotts, many were now left without a penny to their name, including the Minister for Magic.

There was no question that the Alley would have to be taken back as quickly as possible. The _Prophet_, however, lamented that the Floos in and out of every shop had been disconnected, and the bricks originally used as an entrance to the Alley had been destroyed in the fight. Diagon Alley, it seemed, was impossible to get in or out of. There were no confirmed prisoners or hostages, which was a small bit of positive news beside the terrible fact that one of their main sources of income and resources were now under enemy control. It was a right mess, to say the least.

But Harry already had an idea. He guzzled down his tea and got dressed in record time. As he zipped up his jeans and put on his duffle coat, he followed the link he shared with Tenebres and closed his eyes. It was still active, which meant his arrival would not be entirely unwelcome, and there was a calmness along the connection that made Harry feel a little less nervous. He swiftly conjured up a Portkey and let it take him there, moving fast through time and space until his feet sunk into long grass and wet soil.

He tried not to let the memories of this particular meadow overwhelm him, but it was very hard. The mountains on the horizon were covered in snow, and the air was crisp with winter smells. Grass crunched beneath his shoes as he walked forward, looking out for the dragon. Harry came over a knoll ten yards away from where he had landed and looked down at the meadow.

Tenebres was there, feasting on what seemed to be livestock, and Harry took a deep, anxious breath before marching down the slope. He stuck his hands, which had already frozen, into his pockets as he went.

Ten's head shot up as Harry neared. "Dragon Speaker!" he crowed excitedly, abandoning the sheep he had been pulling apart for breakfast. "What a surprise! I haven't seen you in a while!"

There was a sincerity in Ten's voice that hurt Harry very much. He simply had to squeeze his eyes shut, for only a minute, at the feeling.

"Well now, what's this?" Ten said, turning about to stare down at him properly. "Can you no longer Speak to me, Speaker?" he asked concernedly, going so far as to poke Harry in the chest with his snout.

Harry opened his eyes and shook his head, lifting one shoulder in an almost painful shrug.

"Oh," Tenebres grunted, rearing back in surprise. "Go on, Speaker. Do you imagine me angry with you?"

He _had_ imagined that Ten would be very angry with him. He wouldn't have begrudged the dragon at all if he were, in any case. But it seemed Tenebres was not mad at all with Harry, and it threw him off enough that he choked on his next words.

After a few moments of trying and failing to speak comprehensibly, Harry simply said, "Bo," and managed to explain everything.

"Yes, it is a grave thing," Ten nodded, looking incredibly sad. "I miss my beautiful drake more than the world, young protector. He was the bravest of our kind, surely."

The sorrow in Ten reminded Harry of his own grief. He _missed_ Bo, as if a part of his own soul had been stolen from him that night when Bo had died, and he reckoned the pain would never recede or go away at all. Guilt tore into him ruthlessly, and he swallowed back frustrated tears as the wind buffeted against him.

Tenebres suddenly shoved him on his arse. "There now," he snorted. "You're not to blame for him, Dragon Speaker! Bo died honorably, doing what he was meant to do. And you, you loved him like he was your own son, and you were a very good father, I say. A splendid father to him. He led a good life, our Bo, and he died saving his family. What more could you ask for?"

Harry shook his head in distress. "He was too young—" he began, but Ten cut him off.

"Fiddly-dee," he scoffed. "Just as you are too young to fight a war?"

"He had his entire life ahead of him, and now he's _gone_," Harry argued, quite loudly. His hands crunched in the wet grass, and his bum was cold and soggy, but he did not rise. "He's dead and just nothing anymore and…I took his life away."

Ten rumbled in deep confusion. "What's this you say? _Gone_? _Nothing_?"

He could do little but nod in response.

"Bo is not _gone, _or _nothing_, Dragon Speaker. He is _everywhere_ and _everything_. What you humans believe in…honestly. As if a drake like Bo could be silenced by death alone. The youngling never stopped nattering, as you well know. Our Bo is mighty fine in whatever life he is now living. And just as fat, I'm sure."

Harry felt a smile twitch at the edge of his mouth. Ten nudged him in the side to get up, and, though he followed direction with a bit of difficulty, he eventually stood before the dragon once more.

"Now tell me what you are in need of, Dragon Speaker, for I have never known you to indulge in idleness."

He was shamefaced that Ten would not expect him to visit simply because he could, but he remembered (from one of Bo's long tirades about humanity) that dragons were unaccustomed to shame. They were mighty unaccustomed to blathering as well, though Bo had been the exception.

"I need to speak with Griphook," Harry told him, brushing the grass off his pants. "Diagon Alley has been captured, and there's no way to get into the place, much less with enough men to take it back."

Tenebres blinked. "It is under Muggle rule, now?" he asked, arching his long neck. "And this displeases you?"

Harry sighed. "It's a long story, Ten, full of human deception and inanity—"

"Oh, I don't want to hear about it," Tenebres complained, making Harry laugh. "I haven't had my breakfast yet. What do you mean to do then?"

"I need to ask Griphook if there is another way to get into Gringotts. It's important. I know he's avoiding me, Ten, but I _need_ to talk to him," he begged, trying not to sound too hysterical.

Tenebres thought about this for a time, twitching his wings up to the sky as the sun peaked behind a cloud. His black hide, cold and scaled, shown like onyx stone, or perhaps pitch-black beetles, and Harry watched the magnificent creature as he thought about the request. Finally, Ten dipped his head decisively and stared at him with pleasure.

"I will show you the passage we dragons used to get into the vaults. It is blocked off by debris, if I'm not mistaken, from when Cloris – a Hungarian Horntail, if my memory serves – had fits down there on her way to her new station. She was a wild one until the Clankers annoyed her into silence. Besides all that, I have a few of my fellows that could clear it for you, and the passage leads to a Warded field not far from the Alley. It's Unplottable, so I will have to fly you there. But I will help you, Dragon Speaker. This promises to be quite an adventure!"

Harry grinned at Tenebres fully and nodded. "I can't thank you enough," he gushed, appreciative and pleased.

Ten stomped his feet in agreement and blinked up at the sky. "Shall we go now? And when is this attack planned for?" he asked enthusiastically, lowering his massive body so Harry could approach and climb on top of him.

Smiling as Ten rumbled in excitement, Harry braced himself for the rush of flying and said, "Tonight."

And like all dragons, when faced with the prospect of a dangerous mission and a story to tell their fellows, Tenebres roared his approval to the sky as they ascended into the blue.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

A/n: I actually did update last week. Only the chapter was invisible. Yeah. It was just so awesome that your feeble mind couldn't comprehend its awesomeness, so it appeared as though I didn't update, when really, I nuked your brain with such fantastic fuckery, my beautiful chapter was im_perceptible_.

Alright, if you don't buy that one, here's this: pfft, who updates every week? Ha, that's fucking insane. See me, I update every two weeks. What were _you _thinking?

No? Okay, here's the truth. I didn't give you the new chapter because I was hit by a bus. And then assaulted by a pack of wolverines. Who stole my laptop, which had chapter sixteen stored within it, and they are now using it for nefarious purposes I can't even fathom. Right.

…Godzilla?

Yeah, this is a short chapter because it's _the _last chapter before we begin the last half of the story. Intense. Enjoy!

A Few Responses: Ana: hey, how are you love? Stressful week? Sad face. Don't be sick, either! That's bad. I'm sorry the last chapter was such a downer though, especially since you're not feeling well. Good news, though, Harry and Draco are going to get cuter! This chapter is lighthearted. There's sexual innuendo! And poker (see what I did there?). Love ya too!

Act V: For real? I find good Snarry fics all the time. Some are so good it keeps me from updating! For shame. I wonder if you're looking in the right place, love. I'll tell you the secret hide-outs of good fics if you want! Arthur will come around, no worries, he just needs time to chill out. As for Ten (T-rex FTW), he's a dragon. Dragons are like…the super cool kids who DGAF when shit goes down. Here's a strange fact, whenever I respond to your review, I put on the song 19-2000 by the Gorrilaz. It's like…your song.

Amazonia: that book Draco is reading…can you guess what it is? If you do, you get a cookie. A meringue cookie. I'm dangling in front of your face. Guess!

Warnings for this chapter: bad language, plotting, violence, and tasteless jokes.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Sixteen

"Are you entirely sure this is a good idea?" Harry mumbled to his companion, looking over at him with the intent to persuade them out of going.

Rolling his eyes, Draco shook his head and retorted, "As I recall, it wasn't my idea at all, Potter. He's _your_ ally. Do _you_ think you should talk to him?"

It was quite reasonable that Harry visit Rashidi, though it was probably not at all good for his own flagging morale. Rashidi would have to be livid with him, likely ready to condemn Harry for his abandonment. He cringed at his own gaffe. It was not like he was unaware of, or was simply ignoring, the state of affairs in Africa. Harry believed that Rashidi could handle whatever was thrown his way, and, from the news, that seemed to be bloody havoc. Around about the time Rashidi's men had begun to wane, Harry had been preoccupied with Frank. Then Damien. It was close to two months now that Harry had been without contact with Rashidi, so the man was bound to be furious.

What was worse was that Harry needed to see him to ask a favor. He was sure the price would be high (if Rashidi didn't order him dead the moment he arrived), and Harry wasn't sure he could pay Rashidi's fee. He knew that if he were in the man's rather arduous position, he would see Harry's abandonment as betrayal. Fortunately, perhaps, he was fully prepared to dispose of Rashidi should he be _too _vengeful. Unfortunately, it still left them without the men they would need to take back Diagon Alley. Were Harry in a better frame of mind, he would push to convince his ally that there had been no wrongdoing, that he hadn't meant to leave him unsupported. But there was too much to do and not enough time to do it, and Harry wasn't in the mood to be mollifying.

He had therefore requested that Draco come with him, however churlishly, to keep a calm front between them. Though his lack of espousal in Harry's bid to flee was mighty disconcerting.

"I should," Harry told him, sighing. "But I don't want to."

"Stop grousing, please," Draco said, stepping forward as they reached the gates of Rashidi's estate. The guard was holding one of Harry's guns, and he glared at them both as they loitered in front of the gate. He reached for the radio on his hip and spoke into it with fast, clipped Swahili. "Are you able to handle this, Potter?"

Harry couldn't help but take umbrage at that. Rashidi was his goddamn ally, wasn't he? Draco wasn't the diplomat here, though he was certainly acting as if he was one. He supposed, as the guards opened the gates for them, that he was nervous because he felt guilty, and he was guilty because he had done a wrong to Rashidi. The country was in shambles, and _their _side was losing. During those months of pain and mourning, Harry had neglected the man entirely. He _hated_ feeling remorse. It handicapped him unequivocally.

"I'll have you know," he whispered crossly at the boy walking beside him, "that I've been in this game longer than you. Of course I can handle this!"

Draco had the audacity to smirk at him. "Let's see it then," he challenged. "I've only ever been a witness to you playing your game once."

He frowned. "When was that?"

"Blaise's Uncle Augustus, Potter. You remember. It was brilliant," Draco said. "But don't let it get to your head," he amended quickly. "You manipulated us cleverly, I'll give you that. Though, after that singular event, I've not seen you as astute as you once were."

Harry stopped in the hall leading to Rashidi's office to turn and glare at Draco, leaving the guards, looking very disgruntled at the interruption, to pause as well.

Harry ignored them and snapped, "What do you mean by that?"

Draco huffed, crossing his arms and switching his weight from one foot to the other. "I mean you don't have your wits about you anymore. I find it interesting that, when you were at your finest, you were not in control of the situation. The war with the Dark Lord was risky, and you responded to him quickly and efficiently. But this war – your war, to be honest – you don't quite know what to do with it."

"You're saying I'm not in control," Harry surmised, unable to help being angry. "However much I agree with you, it's a rotten thing to say."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You're doing better. This plan is good, Potter, I'll give you that," he said.

They started walking again, though Harry made sure he wasn't slouching this time. "I defer to you, for you are wise in all things, Mr. Malfoy," he grumbled sarcastically.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Potter," Draco responded with a smirk. "I must admit I am knowledgeable in all things wise."

"Dick," Harry accused him fondly.

"Likewise."

Rashidi was not at his desk; instead, he was speaking with a group of men who looked like higher ranking soldiers in his army. His forceful tones were hushed, however, and they could not hear any of Rashidi's orders. Harry was instantly on guard, the wand in his pocket thrumming excitedly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Draco responding by sliding his hand, ever so carefully, into the pocket of his own trousers. Luckily, Rashidi made short work of his meeting and dismissed the men in his office, including the soldiers who had escorted Harry and Draco into the estate. Rashidi turned his black gaze towards them and smiled.

"Mr. Brooks," he greeted, moving over to shake Harry's hand. "It's been a while."

His words did not insinuate any accusation, but Harry felt defensive anyway. "I've been busy, Mr. Shad, I'm sorry to say," he said.

"With McAllister and Evenward, I imagine," Rashidi said knowingly, shocking the irritation out of him. "Yes, Ms. Novakov has told me about the unfortunate events of the last month. My apologies for not sending you my sympathies."

"Mina?" Harry gaped, before clearing his throat. "I wasn't aware that what happened was common information."

Rashidi waved a hand. "Common? No. Your allies, however, are more informed, no doubt. And who is this?" he mentioned, gesturing to Draco.

Harry started, before lifting a shoulder. "Draco Malfoy," he introduced rather vaguely.

Draco shook the man's hand. "His advisor in all things wise, and his extremely patient partner," he extrapolated.

"Homosexuals!" Rashidi exclaimed. "I don't like them, but you seem like an impressive young person, so I will ignore my personal preferences!"

Gaping unattractively, Harry couldn't help but give Rashidi a nonplussed glare. Draco, however, appeared dreadfully amused by the man's outburst. "Fantastic," Draco responded cheerfully. "That's good to hear, sir."

_Both of them are mental_, Harry thought with a grin. _Hilarious_. "I have to know, before I get to business, whether or not you're terribly peeved at me for abandoning you," Harry blurted, figuring bluntness was the theme of their odd conversation.

Rashidi thought this over for a minute, before saying, "Are you sorry?"

Draco choked out a laugh, and Harry nudged him. "I am," he said quickly. "But it's not as if I meant to, Rashidi, I just—"

"Yes, yes," the man waved him off. "I'm well aware. Though, I will tell you, I work best in dire circumstances, and Africa is war-torn and chaotic at the moment. I am in my element. If I were angry at you, Mr. Brooks, it would be for the resources I have not received in a month, at best. But I have it on good authority that McAllister is to blame for this, so there is no apology necessary."

In the wake of Rashidi's words, they were all very quiet. Harry was relieved that his ally wasn't drawing out or completely helpless, and Draco was still (based on the odd quirk of his lips) laughing at Rashidi.

"Did I use my English phrases right?" Rashidi suddenly asked, concernedly frowning.

This time, Harry laughed along with Draco. "Absolutely," Harry told him. "To business then? I need a favor."

"So demanding! Impertinent too! How do you deal with it, Mr. Malfoy?" Rashidi exclaimed, finally sitting down at his desk and gesturing for them to follow.

Draco smiled. "I barely have him under control," he admitted. "It's a trying task, sir."

"God, you're a prick," Harry said to Draco.

A stuffy salute was all he received in return. Harry ignored him and went on. "McAllister has his own army, and he's recruited Rahul into his mess. Rahul wants out, according to Guillermo, but it's to be expected, I suppose. At this point in time, no one is winning."

Rashidi nodded. "The negotiations in China are underway, our neighbors in the east are under Rahul, but everywhere else is a stalemate, including here. What do you propose?"

Harry shifted in his seat, nervous. He was worried to speak with Rashidi about this because it could be interpreted as something much worse than a tactical retreat. What he was proposing could possibly be misconstrued as treason, despite his leadership in the war. Rashidi was likely to be particularly upset with him, and Harry wasn't prepared to accommodate his issues with the plan. He was determined, just as much as Rashidi would be to contradict once he knew what Harry meant to do.

Sensing his discomfort, Draco placed a hand on Harry's arm and jostled him briefly, as if to remind him that it needed to be done. And he was aware of how important his actions would be in the next few months. He was aware that it was now that he needed to assert his control once again.

"I propose destroying the guns," Harry said to Rashidi strongly.

The man was surprised; his eyes widened and he stared at Harry observantly. "You mean to surrender," he said.

"I mean to _turncoat_," Harry snapped, angry that Rashidi was beating around the bush.

"No you don't," Rashidi argued. "You sense that the war will not end without the loss of the guns. By destroying them, you destroy McAllister and our efforts, but you allow for negotiations to flourish this way. I see what you aim to do. After all, was it not your mission to join together the two opposing worlds?"

Harry's silence told Rashidi what he was thinking. "I'm not as stupid as I look, Mr. Brooks; I will not concede to your prejudices about black people. I am not an African European!"

He choked. "Never thought it, Rashidi," he managed to say, trying to remain serious when Draco twitched in hilarity beside him.

"Good!" Rashidi shouted. "Now, onto this plan...I like this plan. I am a leader in this war, and if there is no winning side then I shall be a war hero. I presume you mean to use McAllister as the man to hang?"

Harry nodded noncommittally. "There won't be a winning side, true. We can't have that," he acknowledged.

"What's to stop the Wizards from destroying us completely? That is my worry, I'm afraid. Without the guns, we could be demolished."

"The Wizarding World is weakened. They need a way out, and I will wait until they're at their most desperate to act. My involvement with their side, as a leader, will guarantee their tolerance in this matter. They are well aware the guns aren't our only weapon, but they know the guns are what hold up this war. Without them, we can have the start of peace, at least."

Rashidi slapped his hand against the table. "I like this plan!" he said. "Was my approval your favor, or do you ask more of me?"

Harry swallowed, a bit reassured by the support, but still anxious as to Rashidi's reaction to his demand. "I need men," he said. "One of the main portals to the Wizarding World in England was seized by Frank's men last week, and I need to get it back."

"So the Wizards will gain back their morale, yes? Interesting! Or is this merely a kick to McAllister's face?"

"Both," Harry answered, grinning. "Can you help me?"

Surprisingly, Rashidi shook his head. "I can give you a hundred men," he said.

"Only a hundred?" Harry repeated, frowning in disappointment.

Rashidi opened his mouth to defend himself, but Draco beat him to it. "Mr. Shad needs his men to police the country, as of now. I imagine he is neck deep in problems that his short supply of manpower is barely keeping up with."

Harry had thought of it, and he nodded appeasingly to Draco's explanation. Rashidi pointed at Draco brazenly. "Mr. Malfoy is right! But surely I'm not your only ally, Mr. Brooks! A hundred men here, a hundred men there, and you have your battle!"

He smiled. "You're quite right, Mr. Shad," he said. "My thanks for your generosity."

"No thanks!" Rashidi grinned. "I am only sorry not to see you in the field once again. I don't know if you've ever witnessed it, Mr. Malfoy, but Mr. Brooks is a perfect soldier. He's positively grand in the midst of battle. So grand, in fact, that I can understand homosexuality!"

They left in higher spirits than when they had arrived, and, after Draco proclaimed Rashidi the funniest man alive, and then adding that Harry was stupid for thinking the man would draw out, Harry made a Portkey, and they were whisked away from the estate. It was time to visit Mina.

.o00o.

Russia was a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of South Africa. Though there was no difference in the degree of tension, Mina, at least, seemed particularly unconcerned about the state of her country. Russia's unfailing unified front when it came to patriotism helped their stability immensely. Mina had once told Harry that, no matter the conflicting factions between Russians, they would all come together for the good of the country. Harry didn't know many places in the world that could say the same.

Mina all but tackled him to the floor when they arrived. She gushed over Harry for some time, gazing at him severely to be sure he was all right, before she blushed a bit at seeing Draco, who had caught her by surprise.

"You've never brought anybody to me, Henry," she said, admonishing him teasingly. "Who's this?"

"Draco Malfoy," Draco introduced himself, shaking her hand.

"My advisor in all things ridiculous, and my impatient and arrogant partner," Harry added, smiling smugly when Draco glared at him.

Mina had a look about her that suggested she was bursting with glee. Harry didn't like it much. "Lovely," she said. "Lovely. Come sit!"

They both moved over to the familiar sofa and sat down as Mina held up a bottle of vodka questioningly. She grinned when they accepted politely and plopped herself down with an air of conspiracy. Draco seemed to find this funny, but Harry frowned at her in warning.

"It's good to see you, Mina," he said. "I received your letter. Thank you for telling me about Rahul."

"Andro would have, but he was a bit busy," she chatted, looking from Harry to Draco very obviously. "Spain is doing well, though most of the Wizards have evacuated now. Andro doesn't have much to deal with. What are we to do about Rahul and the Middle East?"

Harry lifted shoulder. "We need to see how Rahul will react to the guns being out of commission. If he'll desert Frank, then we'll be all right. If he doesn't agree to negotiations, we can persuade him, I'm sure."

Draco was smiling at him, and Harry turned to stare and mouth 'what?' at his expression. The smile did not waver, and Draco's head tilted to the side just a bit.

_Twat_, Harry thought warmly.

"All right," Mina said, biting her lips. "Count me in."

"I need to ask a favor of you, though, Mina," he went on, hoping not to offend her. "And we're a bit short on time—"

She grinned. "Go on with your favor, but you're not short on time. You have to stay at least an hour and visit. Andro has gone back to Spain for the time being, and I've been terribly lonely since," she burbled.

A guard stationed beside the door turned to his comrade and said, "She didn't seem very lonely last night, when Yuri shared her bed—"

"Shush!" Mina hissed at him, swiping an arm in his direction. Judging by the amused purse of her lips, however, she wasn't peeved with her guard at all. "Now, what is it you want?"

Harry smiled at the guard, who winked rather lecherously at him in return. Beside him, Draco scowled. "I need some men to take back a Wizarding district that was taken over by Frankie last week," he informed her.

"Diagon Alley?" she asked for clarification, before smiling when Harry nodded. "I thought so. Well, that's no trouble. I don't see why you would hesitate to ask."

"I also need every weapon you have stockpiled here. Ordinary weapons," he added with a charming stretch of his lips.

Mina put down her drink and leaned forward, digging her elbows into her crossed thighs. "Now this _does_ sound interesting," she said, her face alive with excitement.

They talked for a time about Harry's plans – with Draco providing his two cents every now and again – and Mina was thrilled to bits (mostly because something was finally happening). Harry hadn't been too worried that Mina would disagree with him, or be upset that he hadn't been around, but he was relieved regardless that she was in such a chipper mood. He was relieved the meeting with Rashidi had gone so well, and the unexpected reprieve in hostility and tension made him rather chatty. So it wasn't entirely his fault that Mina snuck up on him and started to tease him mercilessly.

"I've already tested it. Everything is ready. But we need your support, and I can't tell you how grateful I am to have it—"

"Will Draco be with you on the battlefield? He's quite glorious, Draco, or so I've heard. Is he as good in bed as he looks?" Mina steamrolled the subject they'd been talking about with a sort of audacity that took Harry aback for a moment.

Draco smirked. "I think it depends on how you want your partners," he answered snottily. "I prefer them pliant and passionate but, at times, disobedient." He looked at Harry briefly. "He's to my taste, so he is very good in bed."

"You orgasm too soon," Harry snarled at him.

Mina clapped her hands in her laughter and poured them another drink.

.o00o.

Draco looked at the passage before them, wondering how on earth no one had ever thought to ask the _Dragons_ about an unguarded entrance into Gringotts. Of course, where no other had thought, Harry had. He rolled his eyes at the boy, who was standing beside a transfigured table where a map of the Alley was tacked down. Beside him, Mina and Rashidi's general were arguing over something or another. Draco had walked away once the squabbling had begun, and sort of (but didn't) regretted telling Harry to bring Mina along with them. She had whined that there was nothing to _do_ and Harry's life was so _interesting_ and couldn't _she_ come along?

He liked Mina, and he knew Harry was quite fond of her as well. That Rashidi bloke was a charmer, Draco thought of him with amusement. It was intriguing, the company Harry kept in the Muggle world. If all Muggles were this funny, perhaps Draco didn't have much of a problem with them anymore. Maybe. He didn't have an issue with Denny Brooks, thankfully, considering the man was Harry's father. Though that McKay fellow certainly needed to relax a bit. All in all, the Muggles Draco had met weren't entirely intolerable.

Though it was hard to believe he would be fighting alongside them in a few short minutes. He turned to look at Harry, who was now talking to Mina and the soldier with short, clipped tones. Draco liked to see him like this. Liked to see him comfortable in his own skin once again. Whereas, before, after tragedy had struck, Harry had been unsure, so unsure, about things. Draco preferred the confident young man he'd hated, fucked, and then eventually learned to love. Harry sensed him staring and stared back. They smiled at each other, showing teeth, something that looked both sweet and vicious all at the same time.

Sweet and vicious, just how Draco liked it.

They gathered at the entrance to the passage, in lines of two, and Harry opened it with a quick, downward swipe of his wand. The rock from the cave-in had been moved, and the cramped halls were free of rubble. The wide, crudely carved staircase, which they knew lead to the bottom vaults and another entrance to the top floor, was before them. It was small enough that a dragon could not escape, but big enough for an entire army to pound up its steps and into Gringotts. Draco and Harry lead the way, arriving at the vestibule in time to catch twenty men changing guard for the night.

At once, they both sprang into action. Draco put the first few to sleep quickly, and Harry conjured a strange, arching rope of fire that swiveled low to the ground and took out the feet and ankles of their attackers. Once the fire caught onto them, it raced up their prone legs, burning them swiftly and without mercy. The entrance hall was suddenly alive with men, and Harry turned to grin and Draco.

"I hope this works," he said, joking.

In his hand, the orb shined a cool blue mist, and Harry turned his palm down and let it fall to the ground. A shockwave of red and violet flew out from the wreckage of the glass globe, hitting the men in front of them and knocking them onto their backsides. Draco watched them fall. Then they rose and attempted to shoot the modified weapons at Harry and the army.

But nothing happened.

Their men raised the guns, and, for the first time since the war had begun, the sound of gunfire split the air.

.o00o.

When a knock came at the door, Denny wasn't surprised to open it to a smiling Henry. He let the boys in with a grumble about the hour (even though it was only half-past ten and none of them but Mary and Cassie were asleep) and gestured to the wet bar with an errant hand. They helped themselves as Denny sat back down, looking at McKay closely. McKay glared back.

"You look at my cards?" he accused.

McKay shook his head _no,_ but, at the same time, said, "Yes."

"Awful bastard," Denny told him, wiggling his fingers at John's hand. The man tossed over the cards and they were shuffled again.

Henry made his way over to the table and looked down, frowning. "You're playing for cashews? Seriously?" he questioned, taking a sip of his drink and handing Draco the other one.

"There's a peanut in there somewhere," Denny corrected him.

John looked particularly aggravated as he stared up at Henry. "Mary won't let us play for money because she doesn't want Cassie to see us gambling. Plus, your dad doesn't have any money because he's a bum."

"I don't understand your American insults. I'm not a bum," Denny said, waving the man away.

"He's means a tramp, Den," Henry informed him, sitting down at the tea table. "I'm in," he announced.

Denny shook a finger at him. "Oh, no you're not! You're a bloody cheat!" he cried out.

Henry scoffed at him. "Deal, Den, you knob," he said. Draco sat next to him and smirked, but his expression was lost when Denny tossed two cards to him as well.

"We're playing Hold 'Em?" Henry asked John absentmindedly. The man didn't respond, only took a look at his two cards and glared at Henry as if to say, _No shit_.

Draco sniffed. "I don't know how to play this game," he said, looking befuddled at his cards. "What does two Q's mean?"

"_Goddamn it_!" McKay shouted, slamming his hand down. "Nice job there, dealer, you give out pairs often?"

Denny guffawed unashamedly. "You would get two queens! Hen, Hen, what did you get? A pillow and a biter?"

"Oh, you're funny," Henry told him wryly. "Fucking hilarious, Den. Give me the cards, I'll deal. Draco, here's how it works—"

Once they were situated, and after one rather rowdy squabble about Denny never dealing again, John finally brought up what had happened that afternoon. Henry remained expressionless as he turned three cards over on the table, though Denny grinned like a madman.

"We got it back," Henry said, unable to keep from looking immensely proud of himself. "Raise a lot of fucking cashews."

"Fold."

"Call!" Denny shouted. "Who's in charge now?"

Henry raised an eyebrow as Draco folded and turned over the last two cards. Denny grumbled a bit. "I gave it back to the Ministry," he explained. "I've got my picture in the paper and everything now."

John looked up at him quickly. "So that's how you're playing it?" he asked.

Henry nodded, raising his hand once more after Denny shoved a pile of cashews in the middle of the table. "That's how I'm playing it," he said, showing his hand. His three-of-a-kind beat Denny's muck, and there was a brief round of accusations and hollering until they all settled down again.

"Right," Denny said, sitting with a sigh. "So now we wait?"

"Now we wait."

"I fucking hate waiting."

"Don't grouse."

"What are you going to do in the meantime?" McKay asked, looking sincerely curious.

With a grimace, Henry hesitated to say anything until Draco nudged him in the side. "I'm going back to school," he said, obviously insinuating that he was coerced into the decision.

"If they even take him back," Draco corrected imperiously. Henry gave him an ugly look. "You've been in and out of school since you've started. I think McGonagall thinks you've given up on it. She's not happy, Potter, and, of course, Professor Snape won't be happy to see you return—"

Denny huffed. "Why go back then? Sounds like a waste of time to me!" he said. "But, as your father, I suppose I had better support school, hadn't I? Go back to school, you wank!"

Henry rolled his eyes. "It's not because I need to _learn_, for fuck's sake – as if they could teach me something I don't already know," he mocked, raising again when everyone stayed in. "It's for appearances only," Henry clarified.

"You're going to have to grovel, Potter," Draco told him. "McGonagall doesn't like you much as it is."

"Groveling I can do," he dipped his head in agreement. "Raise."

"Show your cards," John said. "Well, they always say good things come to those who wait."

"Who's _they_?" Denny asked before shouting incomprehensibly and flying up from his seat. "A fucking Royal flush! I told you he was a bloody cheat!" he hollered at Henry, who laughed and smiled toothily at his father.

He wasn't insulted at all by the extremely rude hand gesture Denny gave him as he gathered his winnings happily.

.o00o.

The halls of Hogwarts were barren and quiet. It was late, around midnight, and though Harry's rooms had been warm, the stone passageways were cold to the touch. The freeze seeped into his skin as he walked, and he wondered when winter had snuck up on him. Autumn seemed like it had come and gone with nary a whisper, and all those days (the first few weeks of winter) had been spent in discord. In mourning.

Time had come back to him this week, like a rushing tide, and now he had enough of it to be getting on with. In the morning, he hoped to speak to McGonagall about staying in school. Keeping up appearances came with the unfortunate sacrifice of staying in one place, but he could do it if it meant his plans would work out. There was quite a bit at stake now, and Harry planned on being prepared.

And so he was seeking out Severus Snape in his own domain. Which put him at risk for a quick hex, but it seemed worth it now that everything was in place. Draco had wished him luck upon his departure, satisfied with leaving Harry to the dogs until he came back seeking comfort from Big Bad Snape. But Harry knew how to handle the man now. He would have to.

During his self-imposed exile, nothing and no one had been able to help him, it seemed. Until Draco, of course. Though Harry was sure it was simply a coincidence that the boy had visited him when he was just waking up from his lengthy state of despair. He was certain Snape was of a mind that Harry was rather pathetic for his minor breakdown, but that was okay, too, because Snape had never thought much of him anyway.

The news would break tomorrow, though, and Snape, as a large part of the plan, needed to be informed of the state of affairs. There was no telling if the man would be pleased or not, and that fact alone made Harry slightly wary. A large part of his security and confidence had come back over the last week; he wasn't so weak now, to be easily hurt by Snape's words, so he judged it a good time to confront the man. Or Draco did. Whatever.

He made it to Snape's door, but he loitered in front of it for a minute. There was a chance that the entrance would open quickly and shut in his face just as fast, as Snape was prone to little tantrums when he felt irritated. Regardless, he knocked, though he couldn't help his sigh.

Surprisingly, when the door swung open, Snape merely sneered at him and snapped, "Get in."

Harry swiftly stepped forward before Snape could crush him with the door. Taking this as a sign of acceptance, Harry grinned and asked, "Have you given any thought to my offer?"

Snape scowled. "Potter, what nonsense are you speaking of?" he hissed.

"You. Me. A large bed. Silk sheets. Chains? You seem like a man who'd use chains."

"Get out," Snape hollered shoving him towards the door.

Harry dug his heels into the ground and whined, "But you just told me to get in! I can get in. If you know what I mean. And out. Thrusting—"

"I hate you."

He grinned and turned back around to stare at the man. "I'm tempting you, that's why you hate me," he teased. "In any case, I'm in an actual relationship now, mate. Congratulate me."

"No," the professor countered waspishly. "What has you so infernally happy?"

"It's a new age, love," Harry told him, uncomfortable with still standing by the door. "I've got a plan to fix everything I've banjaxed. It's brill."

"I'm sure I don't want to know what you're up to, Potter," Snape cut him off, not sounding enthusiastic at all. "It's rather late, though I doubt you'd considered it, and I shouldn't be surprised that you didn't, and I really must be heading off to bed—"

"Tomorrow's front page will interest you," Harry interrupted in kind. "It depicts yours truly taking back Diagon Alley from the nefarious Muggles. Very intriguing stuff. Scrimgeour was positively salivating."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "What game are you playing, Potter?" he asked, his gaze full of suspicious caution.

"A good one. One involving the end of this war, the death of certain traitors, world peace, and your ingenious new potion."

Forehead arched in curiosity and disgust, Snape said, "You want to use my invention for your own means, I imagine."

"Yes, but I've a challenge for you," Harry teased, shaking a finger. "Would you invite me in and offer me a drink already?"

Rather than excusing himself for his boorish behavior, Snape spun around and made towards his desk, motioning for Harry to sit. Beverages were not included. He sat down ungracefully and patted his pockets for a smoke.

Only when it was lit did Snape say "you can't smoke in here" in a decidedly impatient tone of voice.

Harry's mouth quirked up. "You said something of the sort to me when I first arrived here, do you recall?" he asked nostalgically, crossing one leg over the other.

"And you flouted the rules then, like you plan to do now, I suspect."

"You suspect correctly, Professor. How's this, then? You fuck me, and I'll never smoke another fag in the halls of Hogwarts. Bar the post-coital cigarette. Don't deny me that," Harry prattled cheerfully.

"Potter," Snape said, closing his eyes and pinching the top of his nose. "I can't tell you how much I despise your very existence. If I hadn't known your mother so well, I would be sure the origins of the phrase 'son of a bitch' came from you."

Harry burst out laughing. "Please, please give me a go. I want you so bad," he guffawed. But he sobered when Snape got that look on his face that meant death. "Alright, alright, to the point. I need you to modify the potion."

"You dare attempt to advise a Potions Master on what to do with his potions?" the man asked, quietly as if to scare Harry into not proceeding. It almost worked.

"I do dare," Harry hedged, biting his lip. "I need to bring someone to me. To locate them and _compel_ them to come. Like a dog. Or, you know, like copulation between you and me. I'm compelling, I promise."

"Can I put you down much like a dog, then?" Snape retorted hotly. "It can't be done with a deadline, Potter. If you want to rush me, you can kindly go to hell."

Harry tilted his head. "There's no rush. I need it in sixty days," he explained.

Snape's expression did not change, and he remained silent, as if to prevent himself from cursing Harry into oblivion. _Quite understandably_, Harry thought.

"I'll help you with the research of course," he added. "I'm to talk to McGonagall tomorrow, to get her to accept me back to classes. My password to my rooms still works, so I'm hoping that's a good sign. I could also help you brew it—"

"No! No, if you want this done, it will be done right. Being saddled with help not entirely up to par in intelligence and common sense tends to lead to a botched potion."

He smiled. "You make me feel so wonderful, Severus," he said affectionately. Harry suddenly became serious. "You were right, you know, about individuals. About Draco. About what I was doing. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you sooner."

The silence in the wake of his apology served as acceptance to Harry, so he continued. "I'm trying, now, to fix it. I feel like I have control, finally. But I do need your help. Whatever you want in return—"

"I want Draco's name cleared," Snape bit out. "And I want your word that you won't hurt him. For some strange reason, the boy loves you."

Harry didn't hesitate. "Done. And I love him too," he said.

"I want him pardoned as soon as possible, Potter. You won't waffle until it's too late to serve your debt."

"When I said done, I meant done," Harry told him smugly. "Did I forget to tell you? Not only will I be a glorified hero in tomorrow's papers, but a citizen, who just happened to be on the run from the law, stepped forward and helped to re-conquer Diagon right alongside me. Blonde, rather dashing, Slytherin? You know him?"

Snape stared at him closely, judging Harry efficiently to see if he was lying. What he saw in Harry's demeanor must have reassured him because Snape dipped his head in agreement. "You'll have your potion," he said.

Stubbing his cigarette out on his heel, Harry rose and grinned. "I'm glad to hear it," he gushed in happiness. "I look forward to the next few months working with you. We'll see a lot of each other, I imagine."

"Not if you're dead," Snape threatened, swiping a finger towards the exit. "Door," he commanded.

Harry left in rather high spirits, which he was prone to be in when something new and fresh (and likely full of controversy) was afoot. Perhaps Snape had good reason to be worried, but, this time, Harry vowed that this turn of events would only lead to good things. He realized, suddenly, that he hadn't thought up an ending to his story when he'd started it, and knowing, now, where he was heading was better than the dream to begin with. _Motivation,_ Harry thought as he took great galloping steps back to his rooms, _did_ wonders_ for the soul_.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

A/n: OH, this is going to be a _long _author's note. Sorry. It drives me nuts too.

_Here's what I'm doing_. As you've probably noticed already, there's three chapters for you to read. Next week, there will be three more. And the week after that. And then one more. And then nothing. Because this story will be over.

Here's what I need _you_ to do: **review like crazy**. Like speed-tweak crazy. You'll need to, because this ship is sailing and you all want to get a word in, yeah? And of course, it'll fuel the insanity of me writing three chaps a week for you. Everyone likes me insane.

On a sadder note, FF wouldn't let me reply to reviews. Does anybody know what's going on? I got the 404 Fuck Off Outdated Link thingy. Anybody else having the same issue? So, here's my very heartfelt thank you to you all for reviewing.

_Thank you_.

Special thanks to: **chys** and **Dragonanzar** for worrying about me even though they didn't have to. RL got nuts. **AL** and **Ana**, and all my wonderful regulars who keep me chugging along. I love you guys, from the bottom of my heart. You rock.  
_Expert _thanks to **Amazonia.**Do you know how much editing she's got to do? My god...sainthood here she comes. I love you, Xena.

Now let's get this shit rolling.

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of violence, flashbacks, bad jokes, and a warm gooey feeling.

Panic Switch

Chapter Seventeen

_It was the first time his target had come to him. Henry was used to searching the person out and quietly, quickly getting rid of them. He wasn't one to cause a scene. He wasn't one for dallying. But this particular target had something else planned for the night. His clever strategy consisted of getting lost in one of the most crowded places in New York. A night club, where it was easy to lose a person but, also, easier to kill them without anyone noticing. _

"_Strike one," he had whispered to himself. _

_The man was worthless. Frank had gotten in a small squabble with a few Italians a month or so ago, and this boy (the son of a very wealthy, very rude man) was apparently insulting Frank personally with his continued existence. So he was there, in Queens, scouting out his newest target and wondering if the night would turn out better than it had begun. _

_The club itself was one that Henry would have never frequented, not even in his days as a wild child with Francis. It felt as if a thin coat of slime had gathered on his skin as the crowd undulated closer. His target, who was content to mill about the bar, approached a woman quite a bit out of his league. He must have said something rather unseemly because, not a moment later, her drink destroyed the silk shirt Henry knew he had just bought. Not bothering to stifle his laughter, Henry watched the target mop at his shirt in vain as the bartender (who seemed unashamed of mocking anyone) guffawed at the man's ill luck. In a huff, Henry's target flipped the giggling woman the bird and made his way outside. _

_Henry followed. _

_In the back alley, where the much-too-inebriated patrons stumbled about, his target was furiously puffing on his cigarette and glaring at a rowdy group of young men who were fighting with each other by the street. Henry grimaced at the noise, but trundled closer anyway. He put a cigarette to his mouth and turned to the sulking man. _

"_Got a light?" he asked. _

_The target grunted and held up his lighter. Henry lit his cigarette. _

"_Thanks," he said, passing it back. "What's all this, then?" he queried. _

_The man's eyes watched the casual wave of his cigarette as he gestured towards the fighting men. "I don't know, man, but they're fucking loud," he answered wearily. "Why are you British?" _

_Henry sniggered. "What kind of question is that? Why are you American?" _

_Another grunt, and the target was suddenly candid in his state of mind. He ran a hand across his eyes and shook himself, bodily, out of the haze of alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot as he said, somewhat sadly, "I'm very fucking drunk." _

_The brawlers seemed to be settling for a rousing argument, rather than using fists, and they ambled closer as Henry took a long, deep drag. "What did you say to that woman? She fucked up your shirt," Henry commented._

_Morosely, the man straightened out his silk top and shook his head at the damage. "I asked her if she farted," he explained. _

_Henry raised his eyebrows, and the man finally looked at him. "You know," he said awkwardly, "because she blows me away." _

"_Who does that work on?" Henry wanted to know, and he asked in a sort of tone that suggested he was indulging a very young person. _

"_No one," the man sighed. "Fucking no one." _

_He was staring at Henry as if they hadn't been having a conversation for close to ten minutes now. As if he'd never seen another person before. Henry, quite amused, saluted the man absently. _

"_See, if you used that line, you'd get a date," the man surmised. _

_Henry couldn't help but smirk. "I doubt I have to say anything at all," he retorted. _

_The target laughed, though it sounded more like a scoff than anything. Indignantly, he flicked his cigarette away and quickly turned to Henry. "I don't like pretty boys," he stated, not at all aggressively. In fact, any effect of hostility was lost with his swaying stance, as if he was about to fall from the dizziness brought about by his abrupt pirouette. _

"_Pretty boy! Hey, pretty boy!" said one of the brawlers; the group of them having gotten closer as they had talked. "Don't you have a fag parade to get to?" he shouted, and all of them (both sides of the debaters, who now seemed to have forgotten they were at odds) laughed. _

"_Creative," Henry murmured, tipping his head at them and taking a drag. The man who had hollered at him toddled forward, using the grimy wall to keep himself upright, and stopped directly in front of them, swaying. "Gimme a cigarette," he demanded drunkenly. _

_The target handed him one rather warily. _

"_Gimme a lighter," he pressed. _

"_Want me to smoke it for you too?" the target grumbled._

_The brawler waited until his smoke was lit to glare at the man. "Hey, fuck you, alright?" he slurred. _

"_Yeah, hey, fuck you." _

"_No, man, fuck you!" the group yelled. _

"_Jesus," Henry sighed. _

"_I'm going to kill that motherfucker right there," the brawler suddenly blurted, pointing to a man in his group. "He stole my girlfriend, man!" _

"_She wasn't your girlfriend," the other brawler argued hotly. "She rejected your sorry ass." _

"_Oh yeah? Well, she told you to fuck off, too!" _

"_Sounds like both of you aren't getting lucky tonight," Henry concluded, throwing his smoke away. _

"_Nah, man," the brawler said. "Pretty boy'd get a date, I bet." _

"_That's what I said," the target told them. _

"_Go get us a date, pretty boy!" _

"_Yeah, do it! If you're so fucking pretty, get us a date." _

"_Why is he British?" _

"_Jesus," Henry said again. "How much you want to bet I can chat up that bird you all struck out on and get myself laid?" _

_A variety of amounts came at him from the crowd, and Henry tried not to laugh as the bid rose higher and higher for no other reason than that this was suddenly an auction, and they were intent on outbidding each other. _

"_On second thought," he said, before the tomfoolery could get out of hand. "I haven't the time." _

_They all seemed particularly offended Henry wasn't going to stick around to humor them. "Too busy being a fag," the brawler announced, which appeared to be uproariously funny to the rest of his mates. "Do it, man, or I'll fucking kill you!" _

"_Beat his ass!" _

_Having had enough, Henry flipped them off and waited for the predictable violence to follow. He didn't have to wait long. A fist came flying towards his face. Henry barely had to move as the wavering, uncoordinated hand made for him, and, in the same motion, he snatched his gun out of his pocket and shot. The bullet tore into the man's chest silently, and blood, thick and red, flowered where the slug had arrived. The brawler dropped to the floor like a sack of bricks, and quickly, before the others could scatter, he disposed of them one by one, swiftly and silently. The alley, likely for the first time that night, was silent. _

_He turned to his target, who had his arms raised in frightened surrender. _

"_I wonder if the girl who rejected them was the same one who ruined your shirt," Henry conjectured idly. _

"_Uh, um, m-m-maybe?" _

"_Hmm. At least she's got taste," Henry complimented. _

"_Are you-are you going to…are you going to…" _

"_Yeah," Henry nodded, lifting a shoulder. "Sorry." _

"_You're Brooks?" _

"_That's me." _

_The target did not drop his hands. He gulped audibly, opening his mouth, and then a rush of words came out that seemed both hysterical and well-thought out. "Did you just fart? Because you blow me away." _

_Henry burst out laughing. A hopeful smile lit the man's face as Henry laughed heartily, until, of course, it dropped into abject fear as the gun came up and the bullet ground itself in between the target's eyes. Henry turned away, still sniggering, and went back into the club. A song the room obviously approved of was starting, and there was a brief celebration upon hearing its opening riffs before the dancing began anew. Lights flashed in and out of his vision as he approached the girl at the bar. _

"_Why not?" Henry said to himself, unheard by everyone else over the pounding beat of the drums. _

_He ordered a drink and turned to the girl. Her eyes went rather wide. _

"_Did you just—" _

"_Yes." _

Well then_, Henry thought as he left with the beautiful young woman on his arm,_ I should have put money on it_. _

.o00o

He ran. Of all the reasons to run, this one had to be the most bizarre. As he moved through the crowded halls, he couldn't help but laugh a bit.

Harry was late for class. Snape would likely have his head once he showed up, but he had to admit that he wasn't overly concerned. Doubting very much that Snape would accept his excuse of being caught up in his own head, Harry was prepared to lie his way out of a detention. Perhaps a Daily Prophet reporter had delayed him (as they were wont to do now that he was trendy again), or maybe he was late on account of kittens needing saving from big, bad trees. Or not.

Grinning as he slammed into a student, Harry yelled a quick apology and set off again. He couldn't use Draco as an excuse, even though it was a clever one, because it was likely the blond was already in the Potions classroom, gloating happily about his pardon and his subsequent fame due to his "heroic" actions. Harry had tried to divert his lover from being too conceited, but he hadn't tried hard. Draco was unimaginably attractive when he had a big head.

Which was a rather funny thought that caused Harry's laughter to follow him into the classroom. The students turned to stare as Snape whipped about in front of the chalkboard and glared (that furious, "I absolutely abhor you," look) at him.

"Mr. Potter, so nice of you to join us," Snape hissed.

Draco was sitting on the Slytherin side of the room, staring at Harry with amusement. He stifled a laugh, but only barely.

Snape saw his hilarity, of course. "Pray tell, what excuse do you have for me?" he requested sharply.

There were obviously a number of things for Harry to respond with, but he settled for "kittens?"

Not at all amused, Snape scowled furiously at the students who laughed and turned back to Harry. "Det—"

"No, no, wait," Harry cut him off. "Autographs?"

Snape glowered at him darkly.

"Um...reckless heroics?"

"Det—"

"I was witness to these reckless heroics, sir," Draco suddenly put in.

Which made Pansy Parkinson simper, "Of course you were, Draco, you're a hero, after all," as she hung on his arm.

Harry peered at her narrowly. "That's right," he said, slowly. "My reckless heroics in bed, you mean."

He simply had to preen when Draco gave him a very interested look, and Pansy seemed quite affronted.

"Detention! The both of you!" Snape shouted at them.

Since the lesson couldn't have gone more downhill than it already had, Harry grinned and turned to Draco, saying, "Hear that, love? Detention, all alone, you and me."

Draco smirked. "Cleaning cauldrons never sounded so appealing," he played along.

"Detention! Separately!" Snape hollered. "Sit down, Potter, before I kill you!"

Harry counted it as a win when he shoved his way next to Draco into a seat, successfully dislodging Pansy's arm from Draco's person. Snape snapped at him all day, but Harry found he wasn't at all peeved as Draco smiled at him approvingly.

.o00o.

_There was so much noise, Henry was a bit unsure about what to do with himself. What used to be important no longer seemed so, though he had a niggling feeling he was supposed to be somewhere – or perhaps with someone? But irrelevance clashed with what he believed was real, and there were sounds (there was too much goddamn noise) that wouldn't stop for a moment and just let him think._

_Whatever the perplexity that currently plagued him, a voice, familiar yet not, bled through the confusion made by the flickering lights and unmerciful sounds. He knew this person, didn't he? They were yelling close to his ear, practically screaming. And it should have hurt, but nothing seemed to hurt against the bellowing music and the haze of his own mind. _

"_Come on, we've got to go!" Francis was shouting, and this was Francis, wasn't it? Francis Gabriel. His…what was he? _

"_What are you?" Henry found himself yelling back. _

_There was a look on the man's face then (or was it as delayed a reaction as it seemed?) that appeared to be impatient… No. That wasn't right. Francis looked scared, and Henry was at a loss as to why. But then the crowd pushed them apart, an uninhibited rushing both incomprehensible and unwanted. Maybe this was why Francis had appeared so frightened? Because Henry was suddenly alone, and the bodies pushed and moved and shuddered against him. There was an abrupt rendering of himself, standing in the middle of undulating floor, as still as anything dead. _

_He reached into his pocket. _

_His fingers touched cool metal that itched and burned for some strange sort of release. And panic, as white as the noise he could vaguely hear beating alongside his wild heart, made him slide the pistol out. Made him raise it towards the specter masked by the flash of light and illusion. The noise came to a head like a giant, bursting thing, as hot and as blinding as an explosion. _

"_Stop it, fucking stop it!" Francis was hollering at him. The gun came out of his hand without defiance, and then Francis was in front of him, shaking him furiously. "Just stop! Come on!" _

_Shoving hands maneuvered him through the club, and Henry's body let itself be controlled and manhandled. He moved to catch a glimpse of the boy in the middle of the dance floor, but he wasn't there anymore. Had he ever been there at all? Outside, where the noise was muffled, cold air hit his face, and he rocked back on his heels. It sobered him, a little, enough. Enough so that he could think a bit better, at least. They were walking down a lonely street in the middle of the_ _night. Or very, very early in the morning. What time was it? Francis was beside him, striding quickly towards an unknown destination – eating up ground. _

"_It's too dangerous," Francis was saying to him. "You can't lose it, mate. It's too goddamn dangerous." _

_Henry didn't understand what Francis was on about at all. _

"_What? What's dangerous?" he asked, rather loudly. _

"_Shut up! Jesus—"_

"_Give me back my gun!" _

"_God, be quiet, Hen!" _

_They had stopped now. Francis was shaking him again. It hurt. _

"_What's dangerous?" he demanded, wanting desperately to know what had so startled the man. He wanted to know more than that. He wanted to know many different things. Where were they? What were they doing? _

_Henry had screamed those questions, unknowingly, but either Francis didn't realize or didn't care because, a moment into his yelling, he was cut off by a hand falling across his ear and cheek. Which rang his head like a bell, swerving left and right as it tolled. It hurt. _

"_You, all right, Hen. You. It's you," Francis was shouting at him, looking down at him, because he was on the floor. How did he get there? "You're fucking dangerous, is what you are." _

_Francis pulled him to his feet again, and then they were moving. _

.o00o.

Carefully, Harry smoothed down the slight wrinkles bunched at Draco's shoulders and stepped back. "You look lovely," he said truthfully.

There was a smile on Draco's face that wasn't often there, and Harry found that he quite liked it. He supposed acceptance – the resurrection of belonging – made the boy very happy. Though he was unsure as to what that felt like – given Harry had yet to fall out of favor with the Wizarding World – he could imagine. He thought that Draco's happiness would be mirrored in his own face, perhaps, in the unlikely event of Arthur Weasley forgiving him. Despite the improbability of such a thing happening, Harry found nothing wrong in dreaming of it, or using it to relate to the cheerful anticipation his lover felt.

"Are you ready?" he couldn't help but amusedly ask.

Draco stared at him, his lips twitching, and said, "Of course I am."

Of course he was. Ever since his pardon by the Ministry of Magic, The Daily Prophet had been pounding the castle doors down to get at Draco for an interview. He was the Wizarding World's darling now that he had been ousted as a hero. He and Harry, darlings both.

Which seemed to appeal to Harry's twisted humor entirely too much. Yet, there was no denying that the public morale had risen from the proverbial ashes after Harry had stepped in to recapture Diagon Alley, with Draco and his own army at his side. The paper liked to call their little spectacle "The Resistance," though Harry didn't much approve of the moniker. If the hope and strength of the Wizarding World hadn't faltered in the first place, there wouldn't have been a need for any sort of resistance. Much less one supposedly raised by a desperate militia. When he had explained – well, grumbled really – as much to Draco, the boy had uncharacteristically retorted, "Oh, lighten up, will you?"

Which had tickled Harry's odd sense of humor again and had made him laugh (albeit bitterly).

Harry smiled a little and quirked an eyebrow. "You really do look lovely," he breathed, unafraid to compliment the young man. Though he likely should have been, Draco was almost intolerably bigheaded, as of late. Harry didn't blame him.

"Of course I do," Draco repeated, flattening his sleek blue tie. "Are you sure you won't join me?"

Harry stepped away, sighing, and reached over to the table by their bed. Casually, he lit a smoke. "No, I don't think so," he said, blowing smoke into the room.

"It's kind of you to not want to divert the attention from me," Draco remarked, eyeing him. "But perhaps showing the world a united front would be advantageous."

Ah. Harry suddenly understood Draco's request. This was only the second time he had asked, probably so as not to pester Harry into an outright refusal, but it was a more telling attempt than the first. Their 'united front' as it were, would not only ensure stability in their good reputation, but exhibit Draco as the patient, capable lover he was. Harry imagined he would need to be seen as the hothead in this case, to better balance their act as a loving couple, and though he could see how good of a move it would be, Harry wasn't in the mood for games.

"You sound like Snape," Harry told him, gesturing with his cigarette. "And as much as it turns me on, I'm not with your deliciously caustic godfather." He paused and scratched his head, choosing to go about explaining things honestly. "'Sides all that, I'm not feeling much like performing."

"Performing?" Draco parroted, looking bemused. "What do you mean by that? And please stop comparing me to my godfather," he said, giving himself one more cursory look in the mirror.

Harry found Draco's comment particularly hilarious, because the boy did little to hide his charmingly sincere offense at being evaluated (especially in terms of attractiveness) alongside Severus Snape. The laughter in his expression was apparently obvious because Draco was suddenly much closer and reaching for him. The cigarette was snatched out of his hands and immediately squashed in the ashtray. Ignoring Harry's protests, Draco slid his arms around Harry's shoulders.

"You don't have to perform," Draco whispered, his breath kissing Harry's lips.

Ah. His desire made more sense then, but there was an unreasonable quality to it that made Harry anxious. What good would it do to show the public themselves? To show them how he and Draco worked together? It was private, and maybe a little embarrassing, but also a kind of haven, perhaps. Together was something they could be for the world, but loved was an unmasked visage best left behind closed doors. Because being loved was advantageous for every side. For them, and for those who would want them torn apart. Draco spoke of a united front that surprised the people, not reassured, and Harry wasn't entirely sure what to think of that.

"They could hurt us," he said, haltingly, moving his hands to lace them around Draco's waist.

Rather than expressing alarm at the true but cynical insight, Draco merely smiled at him wryly. He dropped the full weight of his arms on Harry's shoulders, and they hunched a bit from the force.

"They will hurt us, probably. But when haven't we been prepared for it?" Draco remarked, his eyes darkening slightly. "Besides, can't I want to show you off? I, after all, got you, Potter."

"I think envy makes people unattractive," Harry told him, and when his answer was only a smirk, Harry concluded his point with "as well as the cruel burlesque you're proposing to inspire that envy. How ugly of you, Draco."

Draco kissed him. It was soft, and very unlike their usual kisses. When Harry pulled away, he kept his eyes closed as he sighed and murmured, "It's dangerous."

"If you were anyone but you, it would be almost dreadfully safe," the boy in his arms commented with a small smile that lit up his face quite beautifully, like a city at night, or an unfettered view of starlight. "And dull, Potter, so terribly dull."

Harry grinned and allowed Draco to lead him into the next room, where the public waited to know everything about them that they would tell. But Harry resolved to keep that smile of Draco's a secret. And that kiss. He laced their hands together and squeezed, hard enough so Draco would know he owed him.

"Mr. Malfoy! Share with the Wizarding World how you charmed the Boy-Who-Lived? Was it your daring heroics in Diagon Alley? Perhaps your princely good looks, your dashing rescue of the lovely Harry Potter?" Rita Skeeter gushed without pause.

Draco mouth stretched into rogue grin as Harry gaped. "Of course, Harry was the perfect damsel in dis-OW-tress. OW!"

By the time Draco finally managed to get Harry to let go of his poor hand, it seemed it was all for naught, for Rita had decided to run with Draco's rather tasteless joke. Harry glowered at him furiously.

He so owes me. Big time.

.o00o.

_When he woke, Henry was in his own bed. Sweat clung to his brow, wet and disgusting like slime living against his skin. He coughed, thirstily, and the scratch of his throat made him groan in discomfort. He hurt, and he couldn't remember where he had been last night to inspire such pain. The dim light of the room was barely enough to satisfy his wandering eyes; he wanted to make sure he was really home, even though he had no clue as to how he had gotten there. The click of a door shutting made him turn mid-painful stretch, and his father looked at him from beside his window. The sun was just barely peeking into the sky. Henry wanted to greet him, but his throat was clogged, and his head was too muddled to form words. Denny moved towards him, a cup balanced in one hand as he deposited himself gracelessly on the edge of Henry's bed. Without a word, he carefully guided the water to his son's lips. _

_The cool liquid soothed a path down his throat, making his tongue feel less heavy. Henry licked his lips, wincing at the chapped, rough feel of them. He croaked "Den…" but didn't think he could say any more. _

_The events that had rendered him so very vulnerable and uncomfortable that morning abruptly came back to him. Had he been such a fool? And had Francis really hit him so hard? He touched his face gingerly, and only then noticed it was swollen and aching something fierce. Pain radiated from his bruised cheek and protesting jaw, and he grimaced as his fingers pressed on the hard, tense flesh. _

_"He hit you," Denny finally said, his voice gruff from lack of sleep. Tellingly, there were dark bags beneath his eyes. Henry had never seen his father so serious. "So I hit him back. Sorry," he concluded, not sounding sorry at all. _

_"Is he dead?" Henry had to know. _

_Denny grunted, not meeting Henry's searching gaze. "No," was his rather disgruntled and disappointed answer. "No, he's not dead. Here—" he cut himself off as he moved his hand into his pocket. "I got your gun back."_

_The pistol was heavy in his hands. Henry stared down at it for what seemed a long time. Perhaps he had deserved that smack from his lover. Had he really pulled his gun out in a crowd? Had he really been so infernally stupid?_

_"Are you sure I should have it back?" he asked quietly._

_Denny was silent, and that silence, more than Henry's want to simply stare at the man for any small sign of rejection or acceptance, made him look up. Denny had maybe the gentlest look about him, one that Henry was hard-pressed to be familiar with. It was foreign, and yet not entirely unwelcome. _

_"I'm not so sure myself," his father said, running his hands over the scrunched blankets on Henry's bed. Fidgeting as if he were the one being judged for some terrible crime, Henry waited patiently for Denny to extrapolate. When he finally found his voice, he stuttered, "But, you know, so long as you don't lose control like you did, and, well, Gabriel told me what happened..."_

_He stopped talking. Henry pressed him to continue with imploring eyes, since he was neither strong nor audacious enough to shake Denny into speaking. A part of him wanted to hear no more, though. Because this was where Denny screamed at him about restraint, as he was often pushed to do. This was where Henry got a severe dressing down, about being reckless and stupid and wrong and risking everything Denny had. _

_But it didn't come. _

_Instead, his father only sighed. "Do you know what would have happened if you'd killed someone while you were fucked up like that? They would lock you away again, maybe for good, Hen," Denny said. His body was turned to the side, on the edge and stiff, but Henry could see the heavy expression in the sliver of his face that was visible. Fear. _

_A fear quite different from the one that had possessed Henry so dangerously last night. _

_"I don't want to visit you in some prison again. I don't want to see that again," Denny finished thickly. _

_Henry made to sit up, but his effort was futile. He felt so fucking weak..."I won't be—" he began to protest._

_"You will, if you keep on," the man cut him off, dispassionately watching him struggle to rise a bit. "And how will I get you back this time?"_

How will I get you back_?_

_It was odd, this feeling deep inside of him that shouted a contradiction of expectation. For Henry's predicted chastising was not happening. His father closed his eyes, perhaps thinking of what words to lash Henry with next, perhaps imagining Henry locked away forever and uncared for. In Denny, there seemed to be no doubt that Henry needed looking after. In Denny, a question sat like a big, interfering beast set on ruining their careful dance as father and son. How do I care for someone so careless? His eyes shouted. _

How will I get you back_?_

_"Even though I'm skeptical," Denny went on, looking back at Henry candidly. "I'll give it back to you," he decided, nodding towards the pistol that lay lax against Henry's fingers. "And you'll be careful."_

_It wasn't a question. But Henry dipped his head in acquiescence. "I'll be careful."_

_Henry supposed, as Denny told him to budge over so he could sit up beside him on the bed, that the turn of events (the unexpected concern and care Denny exhibited) had to do with a rather strange thing called fatherhood. Something that was unique to Henry, but a phenomena he appreciated all the same._

_And he would try to be a good son to Denny Brooks, he vowed as sleep touched him again, because Denny had proven – perhaps against all odds – that he was a good dad. _

.o00o.

After the interview, and a rousing dinner in the Great Hall, Henry trundled across the wards and stepped up to the porch. The welcome matt there bid him (politely, at least) to scrape the mud off of his shoes, and he did so before opening the door to let the cool breeze sweep through the hall.

"Oi!" he shouted, letting the resident criminals know he was there.

An enthusiastic plodding reached his ears, and Henry looked up at the staircase. Denny slowed when he saw his son standing there, and a creeping grin slithered on his face. Denny was never good at hiding anything, Henry knew with sordid tolerance. And he was hiding something humiliating or injurious. Or both.

Henry froze in the process of taking off his coat. "What are you up to?" he asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Nothing much, nothing much," Denny responded, crossing his arms. "Just toodling, really. Toodling about. And, you, Henry?"

Now, Henry was not only sure his father was up to something, he was quite frightened as well. "What did you do, Denny?" he asked, trying, without succeeding, to not sound panicked.

Denny laughed, quickly making his way down the rest of the stairs. His chortling was slightly high pitched as he moved off toward the parlor, Henry hot on his heels.

"Denny? Denny. Dad!"

"We've had a visitor," the man professed happily, grabbing up the whiskey and falling onto the sofa like a sack of potatoes. "A very interesting, attractive visitor!"

"Mary let you bring a porn star home?" Henry said, mockingly aghast. "How shameless."

Denny stared at him, his eyebrows raised in intrigue. "Now that would be a fine thing, lad, make no mistake," he lectured, shaking a finger. "But no, I shouldn't be so lucky. An interesting visitor indeed," he repeated, pouring himself a finger of alcohol and raising his legs onto the tea table. He balanced the glass and bottle on his stomach, taking a good draft and smacking his lips –seemingly quite pleased with himself.

Henry reached forward and snatched the bottle away. "What's this, then? I hate dithering, Denny. I swear I'll fuck you up."

"Toodling, Henry!" Denny corrected him with fake offense. "It's called toodling! I toodle."

"Yeah, well, go toodle yourself," Henry grumbled, pouring his own glass (or two). The drink stopped its ascent towards his mouth, however, and Henry turned wide eyes on his father. "Oh. Oh, no."

"Oh yes."

And from out of nowhere (or Denny's back pocket, which was nowhere and somewhere considering all of what it could hold) came the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. Denny made a show of flattening out the paper and clearing his throat. Henry stared at it with the utmost loathing and reached for the convenient libations. "Ahem, 'when I first met Draco Malfoy, it was hard not to be stupefied by his rather debonair appearance. Looking much like a prince in the morning sunlight,'" Denny read, suddenly adopting a girly voice that fit the narration perfectly. "'If anything, his dashing attractiveness was only overshadowed by his lover, toodling after him in shy adoration. Harry Potter. The face of beauty and courage itself. The princess to Draco's princeliness.'"

Henry poured another shot down his throat.

"'Together, Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Potter have their own kingdom of virtues. These two darlings could not be anything but stunning together. This Daily Prophet reporter will admit, without shame, that she nearly swooned in their bewitching presence—'"

"Oh Jesus, make it stop."

Denny flicked the paper down to grin at him. "No more, princess? You quite sure?" he teased mercilessly.

Henry made a grab for the paper, but Denny was too fast.

"I'm going to kill Draco!" Henry burst out, his face red from scrambling over Denny and the sofa for the article.

"Nonsense!" Denny said pompously. "This is going in your scrapbook."

He stopped his tousling to gape at his father. "You don't have a fucking scrapbook, you prat!"

Denny clutched the paper close to his chest, crumpling it a bit. He looked both amused and jokingly upset. "Of course I do! It's full of nice pictures of you, looking strapping, your first bullet shell, that tooth you lost when Tyler knocked it out, a stitch of your first jumpsuit, a piece of my car you totaled—"

"Trust you to make a shrine for bad memories!" Henry accused, but he was strangely moved at the mention of this fantastical album. Though he wouldn't be telling Denny that any time soon.

"Give it over, you lout," Henry said, holding a hand out for the paper. After much persuasion, Henry finally got it away from his father. Only for it to make a one-way visit into the lit fireplace. "Ha! There!" he harked triumphantly.

"Don't matter much," Denny informed him loftily, scratching at his beard. "I've another copy," he grinned.

And Henry really was going to kill Draco. But when he returned to the school, making to do as promised, he was waylaid by a prepared Draco. His sort-of tackle into bed ended up with his willing subservience, and, instead of a very bloody Draco, there was a smirking one instead.

"You just had to give him the paper, didn't you?" Henry said, his voice husky as Draco leaned over him. "He won't ever shut up about it. Ever. Not to mention his incorrect assumption that toodling means fucking."

The blond smiled and then lifted a shoulder casually before propping his head up with his hand. "I've an invested interest in making nice with your father, you know," he commented.

"Oh?" he wheedled. "And why would that be?"

Draco moved off of him and Henry sat up. "Because if I plan on being a part of the mess you call a life, I'll have to at least be civil with the in-laws. Though I doubt my charms would do much good if your dad decides to kill me."

"He won't," Henry assured him, running a hand through the soft, yellow-white hair. "Suppose I should be nicer to your dad, yes? If we're going down that road."

Draco nodded. "I think we are," he said; then, a dangerous smile stretched across his face. "But I wouldn't worry about my father, if I were you, he hates you, and that likely won't ever change."

"How disappointing," he snarked, not angrily.

"Now, princess," Draco admonished him, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Play nice."

Henry's eyebrows rose, but he did not rise to the bait, instead, he lay back gently and smiled softly. "You calling me princess doesn't make me doubt my masculinity, you know," he said with sage pomp. "It actually gets me a bit randy, to be honest."

"Really?" Draco exclaimed, moving forward to stretch on top of him like a starfish. "Shall I toodle you, princess?"

Kisses swallowed his laughter.


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Intermission

Chapter Eighteen  
Intermission_: Letters_

* * *

Mr. Brooks,

I have never, in all my many years of living, met a more irritating person than you. Never. You're just awful, you must realize. I know what you sought to accomplish with those rumors, and I wanted to say they were nonsense. I did! But hell if I would, because they'd turn out not to be nonsense, and I would be damned because of it. This device I hear of has made me furious, I want you to know. I hold you completely responsible for this, my fury.

You supposed I would attack. My damaged pride, no doubt, would prompt a hard-handed offense, yes? You were wrong. Though, you were only wrong because I realized it was what you intended for me to do. Your tricks and tests don't work on me, as they did for McAllister and Rashidi. I am not weak, as you seem to think I am. However, I will tell you this: I _had_indeed wanted for us to negotiate. But this madness of destroying our weapons is unacceptable. I will not have it.

This slight will not go unaddressed, but you have made your point, and I have no choice but to let it be. Know this, Brooks, I am not a man to be trifled with, and I will no longer tolerate your games.

Yours,  
Arif Rahul

.o00o.

Dear Mr. Rahul,

Though your attempt at "negotiating" was highly amusing, I was a bit disappointed you wouldn't follow through on my predictions. From what I heard from Guillermo and Rashidi, you were quite keen on an end to the war. I suppose I was wrong.

I'm sure you realize, despite your love for my guns, that this war will not have a victor until the weapons are countered or destroyed. In this device, I have done both. And no, it is not a myth, as rumor would suggest. And no, you won't be able to get your hands on it. It's quite sad that I have to hide my invention so well, that only under pain of death would thieves perhaps _maybe_get a hold of it. I know you'll try, though, so I wish you luck. And lots of it.

Yours,  
Henry

.o00o.

To: Harry Potter  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
The Dungeons

Dear Mr. Potter,

On behalf of the Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, we thank you humbly for your assistance to both the Magical world and the Ministry. On August 5th of this year, we invite you to accept your _Order of Merlin: Second Class_ for outstanding merit and valor in the face of danger. In these Dark Times, it is a great achievement to stand against adversity, and, for this, the British Ministry of Magic thanks you. Please address the Great Wizarding Accomplishments Office for the time of your award ceremony.

_Have a nice day!  
_Mafalda Hopkirk

Ministry of Magic  
For Rufus Scrimgeour  
Minister for Magic

.o00o.

My dear Mafalda,

How lovely to hear from you. Please tell the Minister for Magic that I will not be accepting the Order of Merlin, on account of it being a buggering waste of time. Instead, I would be happy with a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of scotch, and a kiss. Right on my ass. Yes, there.

Good day,  
Harry Potter

Not Minister for Magic  
But Intending to Run  
And Win

.o00o.

Brooks,

Fuck off and die.

Donnelly

P.S. What the fuck is with the owls? They've shit everywhere.

.o00o.

Dear Donnelly,

I really don't think that's any way to treat your allies, Donnelly. I thought we were friends? I don't have time to come to New York and see how things are going, so could you please, please just keep an eye on things for me? I've put a healthy sum in your accounts. Enough to buy you lot a new surveillance van and everything. I need to know if Frank comes back to the manor, and I need to know the _exact moment he does_. So just take the fucking number and put it in your phone. Remember, the _exact moment_.

I owe you one,  
Henry

P.S. I could've sent your bloody letter with a unicorn, if you don't like the owls. Owls are messy, yes, but unicorns are horny. Get it? Horny?

.o00o.

Dear Mr. Brooks,

I thought you might be interested in this next article by Rita Skeeter. It's just as good as the first, if not better. My favorite bit is where she says, _"the poor ladies of Hogwarts feel quite bereft, now that the two handsomest bachelors are together. Miss Brown was eager to mourn this tragedy but quick to assert how well the two compliment each other, 'Draco is so fit, he's probably the most suave boy in Hogwarts, and while I would have wanted us to have a go of it, I think Harry is perfect for him. Harry's just gorgeous, but it wasn't hard for us to realize a lost cause. He's a bit gay sometimes, you know?'"  
_

Yours truly,  
Draco Malfoy

.o00o.

Dear Denny,

Laugh all you want. I take it like a man.

Your son,  
Henry


	20. Chapter Nineteen

A/n: Sorry?

Thank you **Amazonia**. You're the absolute best.

Warnings for this chapter: character death, violence, gore, language, angst, and plot twists.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Nineteen

When he woke, there was little to no light in the room. It was early enough that the sky was still an impenetrable dark, and it was silent, all but for the echo of birdsong outside the window. The soft yet heavy feel of the morning air skittered through the open glass, the sound of the forest both peaceful and sleepy. He turned onto his side and shivered, not entirely awake but gradually emerging from a slumber plagued with dreams he could not remember. Thinking on them made him want to fall back to sleep, to begin whatever story they told anew, possibly with a plausible conclusion this time. But his body was restless, as it always was when he first woke, and, though he was tired, it was time to wake up.

The fire had dwindled to tiny popping embers long ago. Briefly considering rekindling it, for it was cold, he shoved the thought aside and sat up. His back was bare. He hunched his shoulders and his hands, forearms flat on his knees, hung off of the side of the mattress. The warmth of his bed was missed, and he glanced at his sleeping partner rather enviously. The lucky sod seemed unaffected by the morning chill, but Harry reached out and raised the blanket up further, touching Draco's chin briefly. There was no use waking him, not even unintentionally. It was too early to be awake, he knew, as he ran his hands through his tousled hair and rose to his feet.

Little hairs rose to attention across his skin. He grabbed up his phone and cigarettes as he padded towards the bathroom. He did his business in a fog of tiredness, trying to shake the sleep away. When he was done, he dropped the toilet seat down and sat with a soft sigh. He lit a cigarette, fumbling with a match, and stared at the dark stone before him.

He was struck by how tranquil this was. For the last few weeks, Harry had fallen into a sort of ritual. He went to class, he did his best not to provoke the teachers, he sat beside Draco at every meal, he did his homework, and he came into their bed at night and fell asleep. He woke in the early, impossible hours of the morning and spent his solitary time just so. By experience, he knew it would be another two hours before Draco got up, and that was enough time to sit and think, or perhaps not do even that.

In waiting for some sort of crescendo, Harry found he wasn't waiting much. There was a simplicity to each day now, a calm weathering that made him feel most odd. In his element, for Draco was a man of stability, he would not understand what Harry pondered now. For was it not an intimately familiar feeling, as well as a want very much desired, to be content? To settle into a life that fit the temperament but also stimulated the senses? This life was that. A perfect balance, enough interest and enough placidity – that appealed to his nature. He should be happy, by all accounts. He should be content.

What was so strange...was that he was. Harry was happy.

He ran a hand down his face and took a heavy, scorching drag of his smoke. There was no use in being happy, he told himself. It was awful timing. Simply awful. There was a war on. A war he himself had begun, one that he would need to finish.

And what a thought that was. He often pushed away thoughts of his involvement in such a thing. It wasn't hard. It was best to be of a mind that he wasn't involved, to keep from revealing himself. It rarely felt as though he lived a double life, so little did he think of his responsibility. Yet the knowledge remained. And was it strange to think on what he had done and feel a terrible jolt in his chest, like being shot all over again?

There were many things Harry wished not to think about. Many things. He comforted his mind by telling it there would be a chance later, to sink into the memories he had. He had so many. And Draco never brought anything up. Draco let him be. Let him fall into contentedness as they waited. Plans for the future were easier to think about than mistakes of the past. Truer words were ever believed.

The potion was almost finished. Soon, Frank would be dead, and all that would be left to do would be to serve a penance. And, in that time, Harry would think on what had happened. Only then. When time would mean little to him, finally.

For now, the plans he held for what would surely be his last battle flew through his mind rather gleefully. No doubt, word of the deactivated guns would have reached Frank's curious, likely furious, ears. That he would be surprised Harry was capable of such a feat would be a shame to him. Harry had never disguised his intelligence or adaptability, and for Frank, being so played, would be humiliating at best. He thought he knew Harry, which was silly and unfeasible. But Harry liked to think his opponents were up to par, and so he considered how Frank would move.

The danger of Harry's new device would tempt him to go after the boy. Where else would these devices be held but in Harry's headquarters? Camped at Tyler Manor, as they were, the pressing problem for Frank would not be their location (it was not hidden) but the fortifications around it. The wards Harry had worked tirelessly to perfect. The wards Harry would willingly drop, when the time came. The extra incentive of going after Denny, who Frank knew was exiled at the Manor, added to the compulsion in the potion would be a guarantee to getting Frank out of hiding. Harry knew that, for Frank, the chance to end things was as tempting as a forbidden fruit. Harry knew that very well, because this was _his_chance too.

And they would both take it.

Harry suddenly rose from where he sat, energized. He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbed at his teeth feverishly, threw his cigarette into the toilet. When he stepped back into the bedroom, he noticed that Draco had turned over and was currently sprawled about the bed, taking full advantage of Harry's absence. It made him smile, very slightly, as he slipped on his clothes and tied up his shoes. He exited his rooms and walked out into the hall, towards the front doors.

There was a line of light on the horizon. With the sliver of yellow in front of him guiding the way, Harry set off across the grounds, to the lake. It had already begun to shimmer as dawn approached.

Grass crunched beneath his feet, cold with the lingering frost of a fading winter. Smoke, coiling like snakes, moved into the lightening sky as he lit another cigarette. His body no longer felt tired, thankfully; rather, he was quite awake and somewhat happy to be so. Harry wiped his dry hands down his coat and stared out at the awakening grounds.

It was hard to imagine that everything that had happened had happened as it had. He snickered briefly, his lungs protesting the cold.

He would not brood, as he was always in the habit of doing, not now when he was appreciating the scenic morning. Instead, he felt it was prudent to think upon the events that happened weeks ago. Although Harry was peeved about the interview (and his new rather insulting moniker) he could neither blame Draco nor Denny for their amusement. He had always thought the media silly, and so his offense, in the wake of something the papers had said, would be just as ridiculous. It was quite funny, however, that despite Draco's proclamation that Harry would not have to perform for the public, they had done so anyway.

Harry was as much to blame for the charade as the _Daily Prophet_. Once he had realized Rita Skeeter was very happy to post Harry's fake timid nature and overwhelming adoration for Draco, he had played along in one of his most shameless acts to date. The only explanation for this, he presumed, was that he was having too much fun to bristle at his demoralized reputation.

He was having fun.

Such an outlandish concept it was, that he came to after thinking about it for ten whole minutes, aware his smoke had died out from lack of attention. He threw it out into the lake and shoved his hands into his pockets. Fun, indeed.

It wasn't too alarming that he should be enjoying himself. After all, once he had learned a little and (though he was reluctant to admit it) grown up a bit, he had started to enjoy his time with Draco to an almost unprecedented extent. He always had a laugh with Denny, for it was hard not to, and being a mercenary had its kicks. Francis had shown him a good time, just as the Weasleys and Bo—

But he wouldn't think of that.

Harry supposed he seldom thought he was having fun (and that would be the reason for his slight alarm) because so much of his memories were not very happy at all. At the time of these events, he had gone up and over them like obstacles, but later they were weights. Big, heavy weights that only had the audacity to crush him in sleep, when he dreamed.

As life moved, however, he found that most of it was consumed by a seriousness that forbade any trivial gratification. Caught up in planning, in scheming, in playing a game too important to lose, Harry was often unaware that there was an alternative. These last few weeks had given him insight into what that other choice (the one he had neglected to choose or even think of) was.

His friends were here. Ron, unknowing of the conflict between his father and Harry, had taken full advantage of Harry's extended stay. He was often in his rooms bemoaning the homework the tyrant-like teachers assigned. Though he was ignoring and in outright denial of Harry's now highly publicized relationship with Draco, he never wasted an opportunity to quarrel with the blond when he was in attendance. It amused Harry to no end, seeing Draco spit like a cat (a reflection of how he used to be, before Dumbledore's death) at his best friend.

Snape, though he knew the man would likely kill him for saying so, was a friend to him; their rather rocky relationship notwithstanding. And he liked to think the other Gryffindors were keen on him. The Irishman perhaps a bit too much. McGonagall put up with his shite like a soldier, and he knew she had a weakness for him (judging by her acceptance, however difficult it had been to get, back into school). Blaise, who remained Draco's confidante, was always willing to talk of other things besides his Uncle's efforts to guard his district of warehouses. They were many times chatting amiably about Draco, more than weapons or war.

Yes, there was friendship here, and a healthy respect for him from the students and teachers alike. But it wasn't overwhelming, their awe, it was just verity and companionship and security. They felt normal with him there. And Harry felt, well… _normal_too.

Normal. Something he had never been. He knew he wasn't a regular student, person, man...like them. He was different, always had been. More so since he'd finished one war and had started another, more since he had lost so much already, including the ever-normal ability to—

But he wouldn't think about that. Draco was fine with it. Draco didn't mention it, not even in bed. Not when he traced the scars and soothed the pain his leg.

Harry looked down at his leg. It had been a while since he had thought about it. The tilt to his gait was familiar now. His hand...the tenseness of his finger when he bent it, barely, pulling on the snapped tendons. His body, as well, that felt no different, but it _was_ different because his heart was aware of what was missing. All of it, he hadn't quite thought about. It was…_normal_.

Nightmares begged to differ. He hated them. Because pain had a memory and loss too, and Harry had mourned and was still mourning, but that was okay. That wasn't unthinkable. He threw away another cigarette, one he hadn't noticed he'd lit, and scoffed to himself.

He understood a lot about what people were. What they did and why they did it. He could reckon what they would desire next. But with all of his impressive knowledge of their workings, he found a lack of comprehension in his own. Perhaps because, in all truth, his thoughts and feelings meant very little beside what he could _accomplish_by knowing others so well. Perhaps because Harry didn't much care at all for his own musings. Yet, maybe one day he would have a moment to consider them important. If he deserved even that, of course.

Aware he'd gone into a sulk accidentally, Harry called a halt to his thoughts and turned about to leave the grounds. The sun was just out now, or its rays, at least, were. Lighting up the sky and turning it bluer and bluer. As he moved back towards his rooms, he saw that there was a remnant of the night in the shade of the front hall. He kept his head down, most of the way, fingering the phone in his pocket that he'd forgotten about. Lackadaisically, he flipped it open and frowned at the message there. Denny had called quite a few times in the last hour and a half. Had he really been out by the lake for so long?

He dialed to call his father, but was surprised by the tap and scuffle of a shoe on the floor. Harry looked up, and there, standing in front of him as if she had been waiting for him in that lonely, sleepy hall, was Hermione Granger.

.o00o.

There was little love lost between him and Hermione. She was content to ignore him most of the time, but, when she didn't, she was prone to scowling at him as if her look of disregard would eradicate any trace of Harry from the school. Needless to say, it worked no such magic, though it did amuse Harry quite a bit.

She was often skittering around him in the halls, or, when he was talking with Ron, she had the annoying tendency to hang on his arm as if Harry were threatening their relationship. It was both silly and obnoxious, and most of the time easily ignored. But Hermione had never sought him out before, or even dared to be alone with him. They had a mutual dislike for each other (or quite possibly hate on Hermione's part) that kept them out of each others' company, which Harry didn't mind at all. In truth, not even Hermione's presence now shocked him very much. No, it was rather the expression on her face, and the state of her, which could only be described as fraught and disheveled.

"Good morning," he greeted her, coming to a stop.

Her eyes were terribly bloodshot, and she looked as though she hadn't bathed in a few days. The robes she wore were wrinkled and hanging off of her wraith-like body as they would a Dementor. Harry hadn't noticed that she'd lost weight until now, and her skeletal appearance shocked him. She was tiny, perhaps weighing as much as Harry had when he was younger. Her waist looked as though Ron's arm could fit right around it, maybe with length to spare. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and Harry watched them warily.

_What the fuck—?_

"My parents are dead," Hermione whispered. Her hand, which hung lazily at her side, twitched as if wanting to scrub at her face.

Harry glanced away from her quickly, gritting his teeth. "Er...sorry?" he said, though not cruelly.

"My parents are _dead_," Hermione repeated, and Harry opened his mouth to swiftly bid her goodbye if all she was going to do was repeat things, crazed as she was. She saw it, and cut him off by saying, "You killed them."

He wanted to sigh. "You know I didn't—" he made to tell her.

"I'm sorry, I know you didn't do it personally," she interrupted, fidgeting like a frightened spider. "But your war did. Did you know I knew? I know what you've done. I've seen your interview, and I think it would be very interesting if I spoke to the _Prophet_, knowing what I know. About _you_. About how you've murdered so many people. About how you're a tyrant and a bloodthirsty monster. I'm _going_to tell them."

This had suddenly gone from very strange to very serious. Shock and alarm kept him from speaking. Where had his morning gone? What was happening here? He breathed in and out, bewildered and shaken. Hermione winced at her own words.

"The people should know, I think," she blubbered on, the tears that had been sulking at her eyelashes falling down her pale cheeks. "I want to know how you do it, though. Tell me, Harry Potter, so I can put it in my interview for the papers."

Harry licked his lips. "Tell you what?" he asked, debating the merit of killing her now.

_What the _hell_, Granger? _He thought, askance.

She had been staring off down the hallway, not looking at him at all, but when her gaze finally met his, he wished she had kept her eyes away.

"How can you kill so many without killing yourself? You _love_ Ron. You _can_ love people. But you've done away with millions. With good people. You've destroyed them, but you still stand here, just normal, as if it isn't your responsibility. I want to know how you can tell your heart you care about Ron, when you have so little thought for others. Children, families, my parents – do you ever think about what you've _done_?"

He didn't know what to say, and it seemed as though she'd counted on it. "I didn't think you'd have an answer," she went on. "You don't realize, at all, what your power costs. Not many people who are like you do. But I love Ron, you know, he keeps me—"

She stopped and rubbed at her eyes. "Well, he _keeps me_," she amended. "Ever since the diary, he's been there. I thought that being possessed by him would help me understand you, but I don't. You make my skin crawl, and every part of me says that you are the sort of _thing_ people warn against. You know? That _disgusting_, terrible thing that takes you away until there's nothing left? I think you're what makes it all worthless. And you've too much power to destroy people with, and no idea that you've done it. Even now—" she paused and stared at him. "Even now, you don't care about what I'm saying."

But Harry did. A part of him was shriveling up like dried worms, not aching but…just dying. The words of an obviously mad Hermione Granger shouldn't impact him at all. But they did.

"I think the people should know," she said again, running her hands down her waist to settle at her thighs, as if bracing for something. "Do you think anyone will love you if they knew? After the diary, people kept away from me. I think it would be like that, only worse, because you have control and I didn't. I hope it hurts as much as it did for me. If not more. I want it to hurt _more_."

Harry brought is wand out where Hermione could see it. "Madness lends little to believability," he told her, trying for casual but failing. "No one will believe you, Granger, I'm sorry."

Her laughter was hoarse, as if she was very old and simply _too tired_. "Yes, they will," she countered. "They already know what you are. They just don't want to say it. You make no secret of your nastiness. You might think it's respect, or even hero-worship, that keeps the students, the people, _everyone_ away. But they can sense it. They feel disgusted. And once I tell them how they really feel, why, they _will_believe me, because they already know."

Harry swallowed. "I think you need help," he couldn't keep from saying.

"I'm not the one who murders people!" she was suddenly shouting. "I'm not the one who destroyed everything! You're at fault! It's _your_fault!"

He raised his wand, a reflex mostly, because Hermione looked as though she wanted to attack him. There was a demented, bright light in her eyes, a mean and desperate and despairing madness. Then she saw the wand and, abruptly, dropped to her knees.

"I can't get through to you, can I?" she asked furiously, fresh tears descending with little care. "If I can't tell you just how sick you are, then I'll tell them! Do you _hear me_! They should _know_ who they're glorifying. A _murderer_! A disgusting _murderer_!"

The wand was in between her eyes now, and he had stepped forward, looming above her, without realizing it.

"I knew it!" she cried, dissolving into sobs. "Do it, then! You're proving me right! God, I'm always right! Always! You're the one who's sick; you're just awful—"

"Shut up," he seethed. "Just _shut up_!"

"I knew it. I knew it all along, and they'll know I did. I won't be that person anymore – I knew before anyone else! _I_figured it out!" Hermione let her head fall into her hands, crying now, big, choking tears that wrenched her shoulders up and down.

His hand was shaking, and the wand felt heavy, so heavy, in his palm and beneath his fingers. And then, with a jolt of something in his heart that could only be pain, he stepped away.

"No, _no_," she said, looking up at him and noticing their sudden distance. "I was right, you're a murderer. Just a murderer!"

"You _want_me to kill you…" he whispered, and it was a cold realization that shook him deeply.

"Oh, god, _please_," Hermione begged. "I hate you so much for taking everything away! I hate it! You have to understand. Just keep me silent. Do it!"

"Ron—"

"_I love him_!" she screamed, tugging at her hair with claw-like fingers. "But he can't take care of me forever, and I don't want forever! You must understand that!"

And he did. He did, and it scared him, and Harry was seldom scared. "He'll miss you," he said without thinking. "He'll never be the same."

"You don't care about that!" shouted the girl. "If you don't kill me, I'll tell _everyone_!"

"You won't," Harry said, putting his wand away. "You won't because I will. Eventually. But not now."

Hermione's head shot up and she stared at him in shock. It was such a sincere expression that Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut, but only for a moment.

"I do care," he informed her. "Because you're wrong about me, Hermione." The smirk he gave her was weak. "I know what I've done."

"Just _once more_," she said. "You can _afford_one more."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not going to kill you."

She stared up at him for less then a moment, and then burst into terrible sobs that Harry could feel from where he stood. The girl was begging now, trying to plead with him around her bawling. He moved forward and grabbed up her arm, though not roughly. She went with his pulling, but could not quell her tears.

"Come on," he coaxed her. "You need the hospital wing."

"But _I know_," she sobbed. "I know what you are, and I need to say something. I need to tell. Please, kill me, _please, please, please_..."

She went on in the same manner all the way to the second floor, and Harry tried his best to block it out. When they reached Madame Pomfrey's domain, he stopped the crying girl in front of the entrance and turned to look at her. Hermione met his gaze with hopeful alacrity, as if Harry had changed his mind, as if she wasn't broken and wanting to die.

"I'll tell them," he told her. "And I'll pay in time. I promise you."

He clutched her arm tighter. "But _not yet_, Hermione," he said, a bit more forcefully. "I have to fix it first. Not yet, all right?"

She nodded quickly. "Not yet," she muttered. "Not yet, but you'll pay."

"I'll pay," he said, giving her a shove towards the wing. "Go, go on. Ron will be in to see you."

"Ron, oh—" she blabbered as she moved into the hospital room. "I forgot to tell him where I was going."

"He'll know," Harry assured her. He waited until she was inside, and the tall doors had closed, and there was no one left in the hall but him.

He moved back the way he came, but stopped. His hand felt balmy and cold on the stones. His leg throbbed in time with his heart. Leaning there, just for a moment, to steady himself, Harry breathed in and out. In and out.

And then the ache writhing within was nothing compared to the horrible, dreadful fear that shot through him like a bullet. A choked noise erupted from his throat, and then he was running.

He was running, and his body was seized with a paralyzing terror he had never known before. The panicked hysteria that accompanied the knowledge that something had happened.

Something as chilling as the words Hermione had screamed at him not long before. He ran with that fear, as it bellowed and unraveled inside, and he was sure it would kill him. The terrible, cold shock of it made him move and want to scream as he dissolved from one place to the other.

From here to there.

The wards had fallen at Tyler Manor.

Entirely too soon.

.o00o.

Time had a strange way of moving when there was no concept of it anymore. Its flow was like water, rather then the endless ticking of seconds, the change of the minutes and hours. It wasn't much like a waterfall, or a wave, but more like the gossamer current of a river, still, the color of stone. He moved with it mindlessly – because he was sure he didn't have a mind any longer. Thoughts and memories simply bled together, as they would if thrown into the sea, and before him, in sight, was the blood red of fire and of death. It was such a vibrant, vicious red that he could barely see it, covering him and the ground like dew. Skewing the time it had taken to destroy everything in his path.

Beneath the rage and the hunger, there was the sound of crying. He was on his knees, though he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten there. The wand in his hand felt cold and lifeless, as if every death it had brought had killed a part of it as well. The remains of the Manor were before him, rubble and ruin. Nothing as it once was. Bodies were thrown to the grass, like dolls discarded, and they were misshapen and scorched. Had he done that? _Why_?

The figure on the steps reminded him, got him back on his feet. Hunched over in a grotesque picture of subservience, as though he hadn't fought to live, was a body of a person. Just a body. He made his way over to it, and he stood and stared. Perhaps if his mind were alive, if he could think, he would be frightened, or angry, or sad. But Harry felt very little, and neither did the bodies.

The crying hadn't stopped while he had slept. When he woke, when he finally saw everything around him, he moved off towards the sound. It drifted from the orchard as an echo of smothering sobs and unrestrained pleas. Harry pushed away the long, overgrown grass and approached. The crying intensified.

In the middle of the wretched field was a crouched child Harry knew to be Cassie McKay. She shrieked when he was in sight, an awful noise that rang in his head. Her childish whimpering consisted of cries for her mother and father, who were as dead as everyone else and still lying prone in front of the Manor. She called for them, and Harry wanted to tell her that she hadn't any parents anymore and that she was stupid for being so loud when John and Mary had likely sent her into the orchard to hide, to save her life.

But she was just a kid, really. He stepped towards her and she howled, but she recognized him this time and threw herself at him. He remembered a time when her father had done the same.

John McKay wouldn't get to blame him now, at least not while he was alive.

Her tears soaked into his coat, and so he held her, if only to keep her from falling. With barely a whisper of magic, he disappeared and reappeared at Ottery St. Catchpole, which was blessedly peaceful. His leg protested as he carried Cassie forward, but it took little time to get to the door. Or so he thought.

The door opened right when he knocked, only two knocks in, really. Mrs. Weasley made to say something, but merely gaped when Harry quickly handed her the child. Cassie cried out in distress.

There was no time to comfort her or explain to Mrs. Weasley what had happened, and, even if there was, he didn't want to. He didn't want to say anything at all. And so he left, and he was back at the Manor and full of the familiar sight of the ravaged world before him.

He ignored the bodies of those he had killed. It was enough that he was covered in their blood. Instead, he grasped the ankles of Mary McKay and dragged her into the remains of the house. She lay like something wasted, in the entrance hall of his home. His fingers wrapped around John McKay's wrists. And they felt like wax and wet stone, but he dragged the body anyway. He was deposited next to his wife. His eyes were open.

Harry stepped out and gazed at the steps. Just a body, he said to himself. He lifted this one, though. He lifted it high. His leg screamed along with the rest of his limbs as he staggered under the weight. But he made it to his loathsome pile, and carefully dropped his burden next to the others.

And then he lit it, and the rest of that Manor and all of its legacy, on fire.

The blaze consumed it all. The rooms he knew so well, the extravagant staircase and all of the personal things that had been kept safe. The pictures and the memories within them. The house burned to the ground, and the fire withered and died. He stayed until it was barely a smolder. Until everything was gone.

John and Mary. His life before the war and after it. His life now and in the future.

His father.

_Denny_.

When nothing was left, he turned away and didn't look back.

.o00o.

The haze fled when he was back at Hogwarts. It was just after dinner, and he realized he'd been gone for a long time. He had missed classes.

_But what the fuck does that matter_? He thought rather viciously.

He was tearing down the hall. They were empty bar one of the ghosts, whom he ignored completely as he walked. In the back of his mind, he knew where he was going and what he was doing. Snape. He needed to speak with Snape, and he would go mad, go completely mad if the man wasn't in his office. It was a promise to himself. A gleefully malicious part of him wanted the professor to be absent. So he could tear down the walls of the school and feel so much better after having done so.

Harry didn't bother knocking on the office door. It swung open and Snape was there, at his desk and surrounded by parchment. He looked up when Harry walked in, and his expression of calm dwindled into a tight, annoyed scowl. His anger reminded Harry of his own.

"Who did you tell?" he asked, and his voice was scratchy from disuse. Hoarse and painful, just like everything else.

Snape's face grew even sourer, if at all possible. "Excuse me?" he hissed.

Harry met the danger squarely. It was impossible not to. If Snape had noticed, and there was no way he hadn't, that the blood of every would-be challenger was still all over him. Sticking to his clothes, his hair, his skin. It was a warning that he had already triumphed somewhere else, and that he would be victorious here, as well.

"Who did you tell about the potion? About the plan?" he repeated, clarifying his accusation.

Snape stared at him. His observation encompassed all of Harry, and what he saw must have alarmed him greatly, because his anger was lost.

"What happened?"

Harry licked his chapped lips. "They attacked. Early—" he paused and swallowed. "They knocked the wards down. There must have been hundreds of them – wizards." He lifted a shoulder. "I killed them."

The Potions Master's eyes narrowed, like two synchronized black beetles. "Was McAllister with them?" he asked.

He tilted his head to the side. Just now recollecting Frank. Frank, yes. "No," Harry answered airily. "No, he wasn't."

"Then despite your plan going awry, it is still a loss for him to lose so many wizards on his side. You should be more than happy with those results, and not here, accusing me of betrayal. If I were not so unsurprised at your stupidity, I might be offended," Snape told him, looking down at his papers again as if the conversation was over. But it wasn't at all.

"It was a fucking _loss to me_. A fucking _big_, ugly, _loss_," Harry hissed, so incensed he could barely speak. Barely breathe. "The place is gone. I burned it to the _fucking_ ground. For him, his dead Wizards were _nothing_. But to me it was goddamn _painful,_ and I'm very, _very, fucking angry_, so if you don't mind, I'd like to know who you told about the plan. _Please_."

Snape stared at him warily now, which only served to make Harry more furious. "I told no one. Potter," he said, weighing his words before speaking. "When you burned the Manor, was everyone in it?"

Harry knew the translation of that particular question. _Was everyone dead_?

He gave a short, forceful nod, as if to stave off the details his own mouth could divulge. "Yes," he said as well. "There has to be a sneak, you know. Why would Frank attack? It was reckless. Bad form. It worked though, for him. So there must have been a sneak."

"The plan was never perfect, Potter—" Snape began, but Harry would hear none of it.

"Will you make me ask you over and over and _over_?" he snapped, raising his voice and taking on an air of exasperation. "I want an answer."

"I told no one," Snape snarled irately.

"Who did you tell?" Harry screamed, moving to the desk quickly and loudly, like a bull after Snape. Because everything was still tinted red. "Who _the fuck _did you tell!"

"I told no one!"

"Then how did they know? _How_!"

Snape got to his feet, coming towards Harry. Harry, who would not, could not step back. "Have you _once_thought that perhaps your plan was nowhere near seamless? That they would grow tired of waiting, as you have not?" he said venomously.

"The wards—" Harry started to say. Prepared to defend himself even though he knew, he _knew_he was wrong and had been wrong.

"Are _not_ perfect! They were never perfect. Be at ease that it took hundreds of wizards to take them down! There is no blame on _me_, Potter. Don't search for it here!"

"So what? Say it, then, _goddamn_you—!" he spat, and he was so terribly angry and ready for Snape to say that it was his fault so that he could kill the man for being right. He wanted that unheeded, unreasonable violence so badly he could taste it.

Snape moved back and out of his space, his spine stiff and straight as he looked at Harry coolly. "Do not delude yourself into thinking this was solely your fault," he stated.

Harry wanted to scream and break the tranquil, appeasing demeanor Snape had adopted – into a million bloody, little pieces. "I used them as bait! I let them be used!" he shouted.

"And it worked," Snape shot back. "It worked, only too soon, Potter. You couldn't have predicted such a thing. It was a decision out of your control, and it is not your job to take responsibility for others."

He was choking. Suffocating on the things he did and didn't want to say. "But I should have known," he insisted. "God, it was a _stupid plan_, an awful plan. I should have known, and I didn't."

The man in front of him was silent for a time, and, when he next spoke, he sounded forced and wary. Waiting for another explosion in response to whatever he felt was necessary to say.

"Were you another child, I would perhaps dispute it. But you called for this injustice, and they met you in your own challenge," he explained. Painfully, agonizingly honest. "And you lost this one, Potter, that is all there is to it."

"I know I lost! I fucking—I did this. I know I lost!" he erupted as was predicted. Snape didn't even flinch.

"Then _mourn_!"

Mourn? Mourn what? Harry wanted to howl. Mourn what, Snape? He didn't need to because there was nothing to be done about what was already done. And screw that aching, contorted heart of his for wanting to cry and kick and bite at the aggressor in front of him. Snape knew, had figured it out, that everything was gone. And Harry found he hated him for it.

"I don't have time to fucking mourn!" he bellowed, so horribly aware of it all for the first time since it had happened. He didn't want to be aware, or awake, or there with Snape and telling him, even accidentally, that Denny was gone.

He was gone.

"I—I don't have time," he said again, deflated. Harry simply would not look at Snape, and so he didn't. "There's a lot to do, you know. I've got to think. You didn't tell anyone?"

Snape watched him withdraw. "No, Potter," he said, so gently Harry felt like clawing at his own skin. "I didn't tell anyone."

Harry nodded, clenching his jaw, and Snape looked at him closely. It was an expression that was more than enough to make Harry want this argument of theirs to very suddenly be _over_. There would be no facing sympathy from _anyone_.

He fled without another word.

.o00o.

When Draco found him, he was sitting by the fire, still unwashed. Still wearing the remains of the battle. Thinking, as he had been trying to do for the last few hours, had done him little good. Harry had already come to his conclusions, had made decisions, and there was nothing else to really ponder about. In that time, he was content to gaze into the flames and not think. Not think at all.

Draco ruined his mindlessness quite aptly. "Harry," he called, if hesitantly at first. When there was no answer he called again. "Hey?"

Harry turned to stare at him.

"Are you—" Draco stopped and cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"

There were many different ways to answer this question. Harry went over them internally with some bitterness and, perhaps, amusement. He _wasn't _all right. Or maybe he was? What a silly thing to ask him. Obviously, Snape had warned his godson of Harry's beastly mood. Well, that was fine. _He_was fine. Whatever.

Instead of all that (really, what did it _matter_?), Harry chose to tell Draco some of what he had been thinking about, and his decisions on what to do next. For it was always: _what to do next_? It served as just enough of a distracting question to keep Harry all right. He _was al lright.  
_  
"It was expected that I would be subtle," he murmured to the patiently waiting Draco, who was close to him but not close at all. "That I would try to smoke them out. They knew when and how I would move."

Draco coughed a bit when Harry didn't continue speaking. "They _assumed_," he hedged.

"Rightly," Harry corrected. "They assumed rightly. I had become predictable without knowing it. I'm always subtle, with everything I do. You know. There's safety in doing things like this. In an almost effortless way. It wasn't at all crafty. I put things in motion, but I let others decide the rest. I figured there was no blame in that, but plenty of control. I imagined myself not _a part _of it at all. I simply was _it_. And now they understand me, but I don't understand them."

It was more than he'd wanted to say, but he didn't regret it. Draco would understand. His enemy – Frank and his army – they'd known him better than he did them. They had won their fight today, and Harry was at fault for it. There was no doubt. And there was no doubt in Harry's words that something would have to change. Draco sensed it because he was perceptive. Or he might have been perceptive because Harry was vague. Either way, Harry loved him for it.

"You can't—" Draco protested, yet Harry swung up a hand to stop him from saying anything more. His lover shouldn't be against him at all. It just wasn't on. Harry didn't want to argue with him because he was crazy enough, at the moment, to destroy Draco for questioning him. He couldn't lose anyone else.

"I _can_. It's time to change tactics."

"If you'd just stop and think—"

The enemy wasn't the only expert on Harry Potter. Draco had surmised what the desperation that had taken hold of Harry meant. Harry appreciated it, but he had to be assertive. It was done.

"There's been enough thinking. Enough thinking and planning and making fucking mistakes. It's done," he barked.

Draco was silent, and then he dipped his head once and left Harry alone. Alone to think. Draco might not like it, but they wouldn't expect it, and that was what was important.

Knowing him and what he feared the most, as they did, was a terrible disadvantage. What they didn't suspect was that Harry was less frightened of being known honestly and more terrified of not paying for it. They would think he would want to hide, but he had recognized that wish as futile long ago. He would have to give in; they would expect him to give up. But Harry was stronger than that, and he was prepared. Prepared to take on their challenge, their unspeakable slight, with all of the fire that fueled him. To them, their blow to his body would seem a festering wound, and, with his hands raised, they would want him to come out of the hollow he had made for himself. And he would. But not _yet_. Not until his hunger for vengeance was happily sated. And he was hungry. Simply _starving_.

They had sought to bring him out into the open, and so in the open he would fight.

And what little mercy he'd once had was now gone. And regard, for himself and others, as well as restraint, through his knowledge of heart and soul and compassion, seemed as foreign as the death of his father.


	21. Chapter Twenty

A/n: Alright guys, another three chaps for you. Next week will be interesting, I imagine. You'll get two chapters, and then two more after that. And then one. I've split them up like this for dramatic effect. Yeah, yeah, I know.

Please, though, my darlings...don't forget to review. I thank all those who gave me some feedback last week, you're unbelievably awesome and forever loyal. Everyone else...guys, seriously. Three chapters a week and none of you can grant me a little of your time? Some reaction to the story, blabbering about how I suck...anything? I won't hold out for it though, so I suppose we should get on with the show.

Thanks to: **Amazonia** for her always awesome beta work. And for being my friend. She's the only one who braves a friendship with me. You courageous duck.

A Few Responses: Ana: Hey there love! How are you? I'm sorry about Denny dying and all...but it sort of had to happen. And it was kind of expected, yeah? Frank will be dead soon, no worries. And well, we're getting closer and closer to the end. Are you excited? I just finished chapter 23 and hell...whoo, what a ride. Love you!

Dean: Я скучаю по тебе тоже. Как ты был? Я работаю по главам. Трех глав.неделю. Справка?

Warnings for this chapter: violence, angst, action, gore, and denial.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Twenty

It was an invention to rival the genius of the very weapons it was made to destroy. There was no question that the device was Harry's greatest accomplishment to date. A tricky piece of magic and science, a success he was proud of (completely and entirely with no reservations), and something that could turn the tide of a torrential, deadly sea. He held the small, compact globe in his hands and smiled.

Mist swirled about in the glass orb, a miasma of mesmerizing colors to decorate an impressive feat of spellwork. In the center of the galaxy of hues, a nucleus hovered, wrapped in fragile gases, like stars and planets were in the night sky. Harry's focus had done this, had made this impossible thing. His magic, in every bit of weaponry he had ever made, was the whole and yet just a part of the device. Like blood, it connected the guns to himself and the orb in his hand.

He had already proven its functioning to be infallible. Voiding out the weapons had won him a battle, and it would win him many, many more. His confidence was just as strong in this as it had been in the guns he now sought to destroy.

It was a legendary masterpiece. His masterpiece. He rose from the sofa and slid the precious globe into his pocket. The wand he now quite loved was in his coat pocket, thrumming with the excitement it felt from its master. A pistol, for luck more than necessity, was bulging out of the side of his jeans. Providing security, and maybe nostalgia, with its presence. Harry took the cigarette out of his mouth and dragged it across the ashtray. It stopped smoking.

"I'm going with you," a voice said from the doorway, and Harry craned his neck to look at Draco.

"You'll have to fight," he warned, buttoning up his undershirt.

Draco shuffled over. "I can fight," the boy claimed, raising his chin in defiance of Harry's caution.

In return, he smirked, and handed Draco the Invisibility Cloak. "You're going to take out who I miss, love. If I miss any," he ordered.

Without hesitation, the cloak was slid across Draco's fingers and folded neatly into his pocket. Harry watched as his lover took his own coat and wand and slipped on a pair of expensive leather gloves. His eyes were intimate in their perusal of Draco's actions, but if the blond noticed, he didn't say anything.

"Ready?" Harry asked when the preparations were done and Draco had returned his gaze.

"Ready."

Side by side, they made for the fireplace, and, one by one, Flooe'd to a familiar entrance hall. Though their arrival was not expected, guards were stationed in the room. They greeted Harry and Draco warmly, unlike most sentries Harry had the displeasure of meeting, and he supposed it was Mina's friendly countenance that put her men in such good spirits. Or it was a Russian practice, to be so hospitable.

Draco was obviously under the impression they took to Harry more because he was quite easy on the eyes. When he scoffed, Draco hissed "his eyes were glued to your arse," in defense of his jealousy.

Harry looked back at the guard following them and grinned. "It happens so much, Draco, I'm afraid you'll have to get used to it," he teased.

They arrived into Mina's office to find her slouched over a pile of papers and shouting in Russian at a nervous looking man sitting across from her. Draco obviously didn't approve of his comb-over, based on the rather disgusted look on his face.

"Draco! Henry! Come in, come in," she said joyfully. In the same movement, she swung around and pointed at the other man. "You, get out. I hate your face!"

The man fled as Harry snickered, and when the door shut behind him, Mina smiled widely at them both. "Incompetence is so tiring," she groaned, laying back in her seat with a huff. "To what do I owe this pleasure? Drink?"

Though she was already pouring them one, they declined without guilt. She'd just as likely make three for herself, anyway. "We need men, Mina. I've got a lead on a base Rahul has hidden in. It's in the middle of the bloody fucking desert. I want to take it out," he explained.

Mina sat up. "Oh? Why now?" She abruptly stared at him suspiciously. "What are you planning?"

Harry brought out the device and handed it to her. "You've heard about it, I'm sure," he said.

Her eyes widened as she held the globe loosely, staring into the rotating swirls with awe. "By whispers and hushed rumors, of course," she told him. "It really deactivates the guns?"

He nodded, observing her careful handling of his invention. Mina made a noise in the back of her throat and handed it back. "So the war is close to an end," she surmised, shaking her head. "It seemed interminable to me, I don't know why."

She emptied the glass of straight vodka into her mouth. Draco cringed, probably imagining the burn.

"So you see why we have to dispose of central headquarters now, and let the rest collapse naturally," Harry said.

Mina shrugged. "Not really, but I'm not complaining. I think you should hand your device to your Ministry; that will win the war swifter. But that's no fun, eh? No fun at all."

"Yes, of course senseless slaughter is the better choice," Draco said sarcastically.

Mina gave him an odd look over the rim of her second drink. "Of course it is." She turned to Harry. "What is he talking about?"

"You volunteered to join us, if I recall correctly," he snapped, noting Draco's astonished expression with impassivity. "If you disapprove, you're more than welcome to leave."

There was a very awkward silence after Harry's outburst, and, though it looked as if Draco wanted to scream at him, his humiliation kept him quiet.

"That is no way to speak to someone you love," Mina suddenly hollered, slamming her glass down and spilling it everywhere.

Harry scowled. "It's exactly how you treat who you love!" he seethed. "You fuck them over and hurt them!"

Draco waved a hand. "Mina, it's not a problem—"

"It is! What's the matter with you?" she shouted at Harry. "You be nice, or you can leave and Draco can stay!"

What was left of the drink in her hand went into her stomach (which was likely made of steel) and then the other glass disappeared as well. Harry watched her go at the bottle and fixed his lips into a furious line.

"No, really," Draco was saying. "It's all right. He's...he just wants to do this. So we'll do it."

Mina watched him carefully. "He should want to be less rude to his allies, and worship the man who fucks him silly every night. That's what he should want!" she announced loudly.

"_He_is right here, and he would like to get to business," Harry told them, clenching his fists. "I need four hundred men, independently armed, and two tanks."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Aha!" she exclaimed gleefully. "You want Russian tanks! I shall show you our beasts, yes? You British may have invented it, but the Russians perfected it. Two tanks? One for you and one for Draco. Or shall you share it?" Mina wiggled her lofty brows up and down.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'll use one, yes. Draco is a... sniper of sorts. He'll take care of what I miss," he clarified, rubbing at the side of his face.

"If you miss anything!" she cackled before getting to her feet and waving an arm at them. "Come then, you'll understand why I am so proud of my country when you see them! Beautiful weapons, tanks. Russian tanks, rather. I've reason to believe you originally made them like an armored tea room."

They quickly gathered the essentials. Draco, having never seen a weapon like a tank before, was intimidated by its size and power, though he hid it well. Harry admired its strength as he slapped a timed Portkey on two of them. Men gathered in the yard behind Mina's home and armory, and she made a short, inelegant speech about listening to their commander before slapping Harry and Draco on the back and going back inside. From there, they gathered the slightly squeamish men and Portkeyed in waves to the coordinates.

When they arrived, the desert before them was hot and dusty. The land was grey, dried out, and full of brambles and rough terrain. Boulders were aplenty, which explained Rahul's decision in hiding here. Harry had no choice but to clear the area, but, once he did, the tanks and the marching men were able to move freely. Past the mountain range, they came upon the encampment, and Harry stood to take in the fortifications. Draco waited silently beside him.

"Get under the cloak," Harry said, when enough time had gone by. "Hit what runs."

He didn't specify how Draco should stop them. Harry wouldn't do that. "Follow behind me when there's enough destruction," he told the assembled commanders. "Three waves. One from the south end, two from the west. Tell your men I want that warehouse taken out. Blow it up if you have to. If Rahul is in attendance, bring him alive. No runners, no prisoners. I don't have time for it."

"Yes, sir," they each said in unison.

"Driver!" he shouted at the man hanging out of the hatch of the second tank. "Load this," he said, handing him the globe. While he was moving to the other armored vehicle, the second tank's soldier followed his directions. He shooed the gunman out of the way of the Commander's Machine Gun and loaded another globe into the main gun, sliding down the copula and standing comfortably. "Tank two, with me," he ordered.

When the solider vanished down the driver's hatch, he adjusted his radio helmet. The powerful machines started to move. Positioned in plain sight, on the slight hill before the base, Harry ordered the first attack as Rahul's men streamed out of the building. The device held through the rifling and, with the strength of a cannon ball, hit the ground two miles away, a yard or so from Rahul's assembled army. It burst in a splash of blue and white light, and the building gave a great heave, as if ready to defy gravity and float, before it crumpled like a house of cards.

The second globe hit the three bomber planes parked in the dirt, destroying not only them but, with a hiss, also melting the tanks Rahul had outside the armory. The shock wave from the impact of the explosions interested Harry very much. They formed a ring of electric blue light, shooting out in circular sweep. He imagined, if its reaction were a bit slower, he could see the power unmercifully picking up the men and tossing them apart and away.

When the chaos below them was suitably peaked, the tanks moved forward and shot at the now unarmed men. Harry took up the machine gun in front of him, fixing himself comfortably on the rotating platform, and tested both of his hands against the triggers.

He wasn't handicapped with this gun. This gun, he could shoot. The power of it flowed through him, recoiling to blast one bullet after the other, and as more and more bodies fell, and fire erupted from the armory, the first and second waves struck to finish what was left.

Adrenaline pumped through him, and he abandoned the gun and climbed out of the cupola while the tank plowed over corpses. He hit the ground running and pulled out his wand, slashing it downward in a smooth curve as he decapitated the man moving toward him. One after the other, he struck with ease and precision. The Elder Wand howled in joy with every man it cut down. He found himself back to back with Mina's men many a time, and they were enjoying themselves. They were laughing and grinning because they knew they had won the battle.

But there was little to fight. Draco had been correct. It was a slaughter. But he rejoiced in it as well, rejoiced as blood splattered his clothes and face and fire encompassed the grey wasteland of the desert. He had gone deaf long ago from the noise of the explosions, but, even so, the blast from the armory thundering into rubble and heat made his ears ring. The screaming afterward was just as loud.

Rahul was not among his men on the base, but Harry didn't think much of it. He had been hoping the surprise of the attack would have caught Rahul stationed there and blissfully ignorant of the massacre to come. Yet, it was still a victory. One that they needed. Once it looked as though there was nothing remaining to destroy, Mina's men let out a rousing cheer, setting about to pillage what was left. The soldiers were quick to congratulate Harry on his triumph, but he was less inclined to join in on the celebration.

He peered at the devastation around him, and smiled, quietly, to himself.

.o00o.

Mina waited in the quickly cooling daylight outside of her house. The stone fortress she lived in was appropriately built to withstand the weather, though it wasn't particularly easy on the eyes. The yard before her consisted of cold stone and patches of slippery frost. She did not go into the middle of the field for this reason, and was instead content to stand bundled underneath an alcove. Her thermos of hot cocoa (and whiskey, liberally) kept her warm and on her toes.

When she looked away for a moment, the army had returned in a silent flash of light. Her head snapped forward. They were cheering, which foretold the results of Henry's endeavor. A smile crawled onto her face as she spotted the boy amidst her men, looking bloody but uninjured. The regiments broke up, likely to seek out food and drink, and Henry made his way over to Mina with quick strides. Behind him, Draco walked at a much slower pace.

"How many dead?" she inquired once the boy was with her.

Instead of answering right away, Henry grabbed her thermos out of her hands and took a swig. He cleared his throat, growling lowly while she watched in amusement, and said, "None."

"None?"

"None."

Mina blinked. "Well," she began, sniffing. "Congratulations are in order!" She slapped him on the back companionably.

"Your men were outstanding," he complimented, "but it wasn't much of a fight, honestly."

She grinned and turned to the blond, prepared to offer her cheers at his success as well, but there was a terribly emotionless mask upon his face. It wasn't hard at all to tell that Draco was upset. "And you?" she asked cautiously. "You're unhurt, I take it?"

Draco twitched his head to the side in a negative, his lips set in a hard line. Henry, as if just realizing his lover was there, turned to him sluggishly. As she looked at him, Mina was reminded of a sloth-like reveler who had eaten and drank his fill until sated. He certainly seemed satisfied.

"I don't recall seeing much of your handiwork in battle, Draco," he observed narrowly.

Mina licked her lips and wondered why Henry was set on provoking the obviously furious lad. And indeed, Draco bristled angrily and glowered at his lover in return.

"I rather think you had everything handled, Harry," he bit out dangerously.

They fixed their eyes on each other angrily, though Henry didn't look as furious as Draco. Henry didn't look as though he felt much of anything, really.

She had noticed the moment they'd arrived into her office. Considering Mina wasn't the most observant person in the world, the tension and obviousness of something having happened was painfully ostensible. Draco treated his lover with a careful gaze, a wary touch, and a fragile conversation, as if he was likely to go off at any moment. Mina didn't blame him. Henry seemed...terribly out of sorts, in a very cool way.

He wasn't brainless, per se, but rather mindless by his own volition. Mina could tell the difference. Henry appeared collected, but his jarring glare said otherwise. The boy wasn't well, and it frightened Mina. Because he was far from debilitated, there was a consumptive, cataclysmic health about him. As if he was a very efficient, very volatile corpse. That seemed to be the rub, she realized. Henry didn't appear to be alive.

Draco was talking with him now, in short, biting snaps that betrayed his anger. Henry responded in wry and critical amusement, a skeletal humor from what it once was. He often called Henry his true name, and she recalled a time when Henry had requested that others refrain from doing so. He didn't have a problem with it now, she wagered, though there seemed very little that didn't anger him. He could, simply, not have the energy to correct his lover. He was lifeless, after all.

"Henry," she said, interrupting their tense feud. "Or is it Harry? What is that they're bringing in?" Mina gestured to the cargo rolling towards her armory, tied to a tank that her men were leading to cover.

Henry stared at her closely. She admitted to herself that it made her supremely nervous. "Call me Harry," he said rather casually. "It is my name. That's the nukes we found in the back of Rahul's warehouse. Buried like bodies. You think he didn't want us to find them?" he explained, laughing humorlessly.

Mina gaped. "Nuclear weapons?" she nearly shouted. "Are you mad! You can't keep them here!"

"Why?" the boy demanded. "Because he'll think we went there for them? Because he'll assume we'll use them? Dangerous, I know, but you can't possibly be surprised he's acquired nukes some way or another. I'm sure your government has them on stand-by, should things get too out of hand."

"This is things getting too out of hand!" Mina yelled. "You kill his men and steal his weapons. Nuclear weapons. History should at least tell you that you've brought a stand-by, as you say, to the forefront."

Harry blinked at her, frustratingly nonplussed. "I'll send him a letter, perhaps," he told her with civility. "For now, I humbly ask permission to leave them here in your safe keeping."

Mina huffed, trying hard not to scowl at him. "A letter?" she mocked, lowering her voice. "And you think Rahul will listen? Those aren't regular weapons. Even you don't have a defense against them," Mina said, waving a hand at the boxes descending, oh so carefully, into her warehouse.

"No defense but more nukes, of course," Harry said. "Which is why he'll listen. I think a letter is a very good idea. I'll put things into perspective for Rahul. He wants the world as whole as possible, just like I do."

But it didn't seem like Harry wanted the world whole. He was set on aggressively taking out any opposition, where, before, it had been a subtle offense and defense he was playing. She jolted a bit at that revelation.

The softness about him was gone, replaced by armor and guns. Very big, powerful guns. Harry was going to end this war now, end it soon, and Mina couldn't help but approve. A slow grin stretched across her face as her breath lifted into the cold air. "Permission granted," she said laughingly. "When will it be over, love? What a party we'll have when it is."

Harry seemed to think about this. "Give me a few months," he said, "and it'll be done."

"I like the way you think! Yes, yes, a man of my own heart," she said cheerfully, trying to ignore Draco's glowering. He obviously did not approve of their mentality, yet she wasn't too upset that he disagreed. He was a good balance for the increasingly-violent Harry and would keep him grounded. So she hoped, anyway.

"We will see how this next week goes," Harry told her decisively. "I expect some retaliation, but I see no need in preparing for it. We're as prepared as we're going to get."

"Likely, this week will be interesting," Mina agreed. "Now get out, we have some celebrating to do, and your lover looks as though he would like to have words with you."

She marched towards her men, leaving the two behind to their own devices. "Hear that, men?" she addressed them in Russian. "An end in sight!"

"Women and drink in sight! Women and drink!" shouted one soldier, and there was a jubilant cry after his declaration.

"And men!" she corrected. "Men and drink!"

"And men!" they hoorayed happily, Mina laughing as they ribbed one particular soldier who was known for liking his own gender. She had no doubt that some of her more rowdy men, gay or not, were giving Harry the eye, but when she turned around, Harry and Draco had gone.

_Just as well,_ she thought with amusement, _since Draco had some fixing to do_. Mina knew it would be an eventful next few days, but couldn't find it in herself to brood on it.

There was an end in sight, and Mina felt a strange emotion she hadn't indulged in for quite a long time.

It had to be hope.

.o00o.

Yet, on Friday, Rahul and McAllister retaliated. All through the night, the country became accustomed to the sound of sirens, as bombs, heavy and deleterious, fell upon them without mercy. The rubble of the world around Mina did not destroy her good spirits; rather, it only made her furious. And she was angry, and waiting for Harry to come to her, to her shaking manor and terrified men. She was not disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he claimed, though it wasn't very sincere. He looked tired, but bright with motivation, and it was maybe for this expression that Mina didn't feel hurt by his lack of candor.

She waved a hand. "We expected something," she said soothingly, for her own sake. "They got into our air space easily, however."

"Your government is corrupt," Harry observed, taking the proffered drink gratefully. "So is mine."

"It makes me wonder if this world is worth reshaping, or saving, in any case," she philosophized.

Harry grunted inelegantly. "Hardly," he scoffed. "But would you rather we destroyed everything only to give up? Let chaos reign like some bullshit prophecy in a book?"

She thought, _no_, _she_ _wouldn't_, but didn't answer him. He didn't need an answer, anyway.

"How are you and Draco?" Mina asked politely as the air raid sirens went off again. There was a high-pitched whistling and then a terrible, jolting crash. Shouting from outside echoed in the calamitous aftermath.

"He isn't talking to me," Harry did not hesitate to reveal. The manor shook as another bomb dropped from the sky.

She hummed shortly and stared up at her swinging chandelier. "You should make things right with him," Mina advised. "Andro and I fought once, and then we never fought again."

"I suppose I should," Harry nodded, staring into his glass, where a piece of plaster had come off from the shaking ceiling and sunk into his drink. "On Sunday, maybe."

Yet, on Sunday, the British Ministry for Magic attacked New York, where Frank was said to have a warehouse full of stolen guns. Harry knew it was there, and had planned on seizing it, but Scrimgeour had acted quicker. With the battle accelerating so swiftly, the Ministry had been hard-pressed to keep up. The call for action, from the people and the rekindled ambitiousness of the Wizengamot, had prompted them to move.

The warehouse had not been acquired (as Harry had been planning on doing) but destroyed. There was a heavy loss of civilians and soldiers alike that angered the American government to no end and, in each of their publications and conferences, scathing words erupted. Harry found himself at the Ministry, which was more alive than he'd ever seen it, all that day, attempting to advise Scrimgeour without success, even though he had been invited to speak amidst the Ministry Wizards. Pompous in their surety of having done the right thing, his speech was unheard. He left, not disappointed, but knowledgeable of what would happen next.

And he was right. On Monday, Rashidi surrendered. The victory for the Wizards was one that was welcomed, and, despite the copious amount of destruction still present in their everyday life, there were many celebrations that day. He went and visited Rashidi with the intent to console him. His sympathies, however, were unnecessary.

"This new ruler is a good one," Rashidi was telling him. "A good one. Japanese Wizard. I don't sense maltreatment from him. And my country is happy to be rebuilding. Just yesterday, I saw a Wizard among our medical officers, using magic to heal a woman cut badly from a raid. She is healthy now. We are healthy now."

Harry frowned. "You know it won't be as easy as that," he warned.

Rashidi wiped at the corners of his eyes tiredly. "Of course not!" he barked. "Even now, a group of well-meaning rebels are planning to assassinate Minister Tobayashi."

Harry's lips twitched. "And you won't stop them?" he asked, amused.

"Why would I?" Rashidi snapped disagreeably. "They will fail anyway, and I like it when there's rebellion! Keeps things interesting. Especially now that I've surrendered!"

He gave into his laughter, and Rashidi laughed along with him, though the man was very serious. Which was just as funny, really.

On Wednesday, the papers screamed about China. Negotiations between the Chinese Ministry for Magic and the Muggle government had been in the works for months, but they had failed when, late on Tuesday night, the Muggle leader was killed in a firefight. No one knew what had set the battle off, but tensions were always high during an attempt at a treaty, and Harry was of the mind that it was not a very surprising development. The world disagreed, naturally.

Civil war erupted quickly, like a raging wildfire, and the death count went up and up until even the media could not keep up. The loss of trade with war-torn China decreased the spirits of several countries. America, weakened by the lack of resources, went quiet that night. The Russians, having dealt with a blitz before the assassination, were struggling to maintain their morale. France saw a dreadful increase in refugees, though Harry did not pity them, all things considered.

Britain was downtrodden, but not beaten. Magical England decided that the events on Wednesday were a victory, as America (their enemy and friend in everything) slunk into the shadows until the explosions of the East abated. It was a sign of a content intermission for the Wizarding World, as everyone else descended into vicissitude.

Yet, the three players of this grand game remained. Watching and ready to demolish what was left of the world. Harry, Rahul, and McAllister faced each other across many miles of wreckage, waiting for the right time to strike.

.o00o.

There was nothing in the world more beautiful than Harry Potter. Or so Draco's treacherous, unfaithful heart told his mind. It was hard to be so upset with Harry when he was still so dreadfully in love with him. Draco thought that it was entirely Harry's fault for the ambivalence that plagued him now. How could someone so wrong, in so many ways, be so damnably exquisite?

He wanted to scream at Harry, to ask him a number of terrible questions to get a reaction out of him. But Draco knew he was scared of the reaction, had been scared since the battle against Rahul. The boy he knew and loved hadn't been there. The young man who had fought the war and won it, only to begin another, hadn't been there. The man he had grown comfortable with and secure enough to love and take care of had disappeared.

In Harry's place, there was a living statue, sickening in its iniquity but beautiful in essence. Draco hated it. Had hated the senseless slaughter, the death of people who couldn't defend themselves, and the horrible, bloody realization that Harry was no longer himself. That he was now the unbeatable Wizard, the murderous tyrant, the hellishly ambitious revolutionary that different groups spoke of in whispers of awe or loathing. A small part of Harry had become a big part, and Draco couldn't stand the transformation.

Denny Brooks was dead, and his son, the last of his legacy (though not in blood) left behind, could not comprehend his passing. It was as if Harry's mind and soul had buried themselves, hiding away from the truth of things. Draco supposed he was somewhat to blame, having not pushed Harry into mourning. But he was frightened of doing the wrong thing, because there was seldom a time when Harry was stable. So he had left him alone, as he had requested, and had gone to battle simply because he thought he should be there to support his lover.

It hadn't worked out like that at all. Seeing the massacre, the blood, the horrible smile on Harry's face, he felt like the one who needed support. Who needed to be comforted. It had angered him that Harry hadn't noticed or soothed him, that, instead, he had provoked Draco into a fury. Though it was true that Draco had taken part in the battle, he hadn't, in fact, lifted his wand once... How could he have when everything was falling apart around him? This Harry wasn't his Harry, and Draco knew this was wrong. What hurt more than Harry's descent into madness was the particular, niggling feeling that his lover thought him weak for having morals.

For refusing to participate in a mass murder.

Draco had been careful to not let Dumbledore's death bother him. By his own wand, the great Wizard had died, and for a time it was enough knowing he had done it. Of all the people to accomplish such a thing, it had been him. And for a short while, the Elder Wand had been his. Until Harry had disarmed him, of course. He'd indulged in a bit of bitterness because of it, but it had faded away once he had gotten closer to Harry. All's fair in love and war, as they say, and Draco was the one to betray Harry first. But seeing the wand in Harry's hand, during the battle, had rekindled that old sourness. It was wrong of him to want it, he knew, because he could blatantly see what it was capable of.

He wasn't even sure he could wield it as well as Harry did. It worked for him as if it were made for him. Better in-tune with its master than any weapon Harry had ever used. Not even his gun, which the boy adored for reasons Draco didn't fathom, could hope to imitate the harmony of Elder Wand and Wizard. It was a beautiful yet sickening sight. But, at most, it had struck something within Draco because both Harry and the Elder Wand were so far beyond his own abilities that Draco's shortcomings became evident.

Severus had once told Draco that he would never be able to control his lover. That, though Harry let Draco take care of him, comfort him, make love to him, there would come a time when the boy would not be able to be helped. There was an end to this story, Severus had warned, that would not be good for Harry Potter. But there was a chance Draco could pull out, could sever ties and not be a part of the mess to come. Draco hadn't listened, but he was listening now.

Besides the mistakes he had made, there was an uncomfortable truth to brood upon. Draco's want for the Elder Wand, his hardships with Harry, and his own inability to support the morals of this carnage didn't really matter. What mattered was that the boy he loved was the man who would decide the end of the war. Who had made his decision.

And Draco was sure it was the wrong one.

In the fighting, mass calamity seemed to speed things along towards a climax. Bodies piled up and over each other as proof of a terrible end. Acceleration to the conclusion was wanted, yet the price of it weighed heavy on Draco's mind. The price was the soul of his lover. Harry had lost something fundamental that he would never get back, and he could not understand – was unable and unwilling – that Denny was gone.

Harry's instability meant something awful, no matter how it was looked at, and Draco was afraid it wouldn't just hurt him, but kill him. It could kill him.

All of Draco's anger, despair, and frustration over this was what had made him wait for Harry that night. For the last few weeks, he had been content to ignore the boy, and it had been frightfully easy. Harry was often away dealing with his war, and Draco made do with regaining his reputation at school and with the papers. He supposed he was being selfish, wanting their ritual to continue, and hating the fact that everything had blown up again. Into fighting. Always fighting.

But Draco needed to say something, and though he was loathe to making Harry furious, it simply couldn't be put off. Courage, though Draco did not, and possibly never would, have it in spades, made him able to sit in the dark, waiting for Harry to come home.

Only, when he finally did emerge from the Floo, Draco's heart betrayed him. Was there anything more lovely than this boy before him?

"Did you wait up for me?" Harry immediately teased, though he didn't seem surprised to see him there. "How sweet."

Draco decided that his perfidious heart could fuck off. Harry was such an ass sometimes.

"I need to talk to you," he said, standing up.

Harry went about taking off his coat and gloves, not looking at Draco at all. "Do you?" he inquired casually. "I wondered when you'd cave and speak to me again."

He gritted his teeth. "I wasn't in a snit, as I'm sure you're insinuating," he seethed. A moment later, he breathed out deeply and calmed himself. It was no good getting angry too early. "I needed time to think of what to say to you, and now I have something to say."

Harry glanced up at him briefly, tossing his coat onto the sofa. His eyes, so ridiculously green, seemed as bright as the sun against the darkness of his face and the cool grey of his skin. "Go on, then," he said loftily, as if ordering Draco's dressing down. "I'm sure it'll be interesting, at least."

He swallowed but wasn't afraid. "Denny's dead," he proclaimed, so coolly he was impressed with himself. "Your father is dead. I don't think you actually know, or, if you do, you don't care. Or you care too much, and it's destroying you."

Harry face was a study. There had been an expression of sheer panic when Draco had first spoken, before it had dissolved into an unhinged, wild look that Draco felt was like the shattering of glass. And then nothing. There was nothing in his face or his eyes that gave away what he felt or thought. It was a blankness that barely breathed, made Harry seem dead.

"If that's all," the boy responded, turning to leave.

Draco was moving before he realized it, and he had a hand clamped around the boy's arm. "That's not all," he said, "I wonder, if it was me who had died, would you be just as cold? Or would it not even bother you? So little thought you give to your father's death...I bet if it had been me, you wouldn't have mourned either."

Harry stared at him. "I'm not incapable of sorrow. Would it comfort you to know I would be sad if you died? That's all I can spare for your feelings on the matter, sorry," he said tonelessly.

"You're not bloody sorry," Draco hissed, tugging Harry's arm violently. "You're not sorry about anything! He's dead because you used him as bait, because he trusted you not to screw up! And you fucking screwed up, with Evanward, with Frank, with Bo, and with your dad...you fucked it all up."

He found that he was shaking Harry, none too gently, but the boy had not reacted as was planned. Instead, those bright eyes looked away from him and stared back at the lit fireplace. Draco immediately held on to him tighter, preventing an escape. But Harry didn't seem to want to go anywhere.

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked quietly. "To make it up to you. You're obviously upset about something. I don't think it has anything to do with what I screwed up."

Draco wanted to throw his head back and scream. "What about what happened in the desert, huh?" he nearly shouted. "You killed hundreds of men, hundreds of defenseless people, for what? Did you think it was the right thing to do?"

"Without wrong there wouldn't be a right—" Harry began, but Draco cut him off.

Draco cut him off in a way that was his very last, very much-despised resort. If he could not get through to Harry with words, he would do it in the only physical way Harry reacted to now. He slapped the boy. Hard.

There was a moment when Harry stared at him in shock, and then Draco was flying backwards as Harry dove at him. He had never been in a fight before, so it was hard to know what to do to keep himself unharmed. Disorientation, by the limbs coming at him – his own that were flailing about – and shock, that another person's body was on top of his with the intent to hurt, made it hard to concentrate. Harry obviously knew what he was doing, he thought painfully, as his nose broke and bled all over the place. He managed to knock the wind out of the boy with a well-placed punch to the gut, and he kicked Harry off of him roughly.

They were separated for only a moment, and then Draco's hands had moved of their own accord and plowed into the side of Harry's face. This time, when he was tackled to the floor, the tea table was in the way of his head. The smack ran through his cranium like electricity, and his breath hitched with the shock. Harry paused, straddling him, as Draco reached up to check for blood. There didn't seem to be a cut, which he was thankful for. He looked up at Harry, who was panting and gaping at him, and punched him square in the jaw. There was a snap as Harry flew off of him.

Fear and heartache got Draco to his feet. He towered over his lover, who leaned on one elbow and spat blood out onto the rug. His face was throbbing. His hand was stinging from where the skin had broken, and his nose felt as though it were dripping a river of red down his face and across his chest. Harry was a mess of crimson and green, his eyes wide as he looked up at Draco.

"You...you..." Draco tried to say, but he hurt in more ways than one. He tried to catch his breath.

"You decided on a brawl, Draco," Harry said, rubbing his jaw as he stood. "I didn't ask you to hit me."

And still, there! Please, no, don't do this again! He thought frantically, watching the emotion close off and drift away. Watching Harry be so hauntingly, terribly unaffected.

"Don't do this!" he shouted, lunging forward. Harry brought his hands up to defend himself, but Draco caught them and brought them down. "Not again. Feel something. Feel anything! You know me; you know what happened. Wake up, Harry, fucking wake up!"

He didn't care that he couldn't taste Harry in their kiss. He didn't care that his mouth was as full of blood as his lover's was. Draco didn't even care that, when he pulled away, there were tears running down his face, mingling with the red and turning his skin pink. He had Harry's face in his hands, his fingers claw-like, but there was still no emotion in the boy's eyes. There was nothing.

"Don't do this," he repeated, near to sobbing. "Think about him. Think about us, and your plans, and what you want. Do you even want anything anymore? Think of me, at least, before you go away again."

Minutes passed with no response, and Draco waited with ever-increasing despair as Harry remained silent. Finally, he had to admit defeat. He let go of Harry's face, and his lover stepped away.

Draco couldn't help but cry as he watched Harry turn his back, limping towards the door. He didn't want to be crying, but couldn't seem to stop. Miraculously, Harry halted his leave-taking and very suddenly acknowledged him.

"I can't think about it right now," Harry whispered, watching Draco's silent tears. "I'm sorry."

He left before Draco could understand that he was honest in his apology. He left before Draco could see anything but nothing in his expression, and in his soul.

Later, when Draco had done his best to heal himself and lay in bed, not sleeping (how could he sleep?), he started when the blankets rose and Harry lay down next to him. They did not touch, and Draco was silent.

"Not yet, all right?" Harry's voice abruptly sounded in the dark room. "I can't...I can't do it right now. And I'm sorry. I'm really, very sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," Draco told him in a whisper.

He turned over and forcefully grabbed Harry into his clasp; there was no rebellion. Draco tried not to think that he was holding a corpse as he fell into a fretful sleep that was mirrored by the boy beside him.


	22. Chapter Twenty One

A/n: review my minions, review!

Thanks, as always, to **Amazonia**. My everything.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, language, explosions, angst, and plot twists.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Twenty-One

Frank McAllister used to know what he was doing. Before the war had begun, Frank was secure in his life and in his aims. He was his own boss, his own ruler, and whatever shots he called were undisputed, understood, and done. Making a life for himself after things had gone so awry in his youth had been hard, but Frank had succeeded. His accomplishments made him arrogant, but didn't he deserve to be a little full of himself? From a lowly fraud to a crime lord – that was certainly impressive.

Only, he'd lost it all. Once again, his world had imploded around him, and everything that made Frank sure of himself had been destroyed. He wanted to blame the perpetrator of the chaos, the person he admired and hated, but hell if that would work. Henry was just too much of an innocent.

He gathered that most would scoff at his opinion. Well that was just fine, because Frank knew he was right. When he had met Henry, innocence had been far from his mind. Here was a seductive, menacing young man who killed conscience, who deceived without remorse. Struck stupid by that smile, one that promised something terrible but oh-so-tempting, Frank knew he loved Henry the moment he saw him. And like a fly in a spider's web, he was caught and reeled in, dissected until all that was left was Frank's poor skeleton and an everlasting adoration he couldn't shake.

But with Henry had come war, and, no matter how hard Frank prepared, it had blindsided him. He remembered, with some sadness, the conversation he and Henry had shared about the subject. About Frank failing to take on such an important role in a paramount revolution.

_"You have a propensity for following orders that I've never seen in a boss," Henry had said to him, his tone teasing but serious. "It could get you in trouble, Frankie."_

Frank had watched Henry closely. The boy was sitting on his desk, as he was accustomed to doing simply because sitting in a chair would be conforming.

_"I've followed people all my life, kid," Frank responded, using the moniker to remind Henry of just who was older and more experienced. It never worked. "I'm a new boss, sort of. Cut me some slack."_

Henry's eyes were bright as he laughed, silently, at Frank. "I could," he allowed, very amused. "But then you'll get in over your head with this

_, and I'll get screwed over."_

Frank sighed. "I can handle it, Henry," he insisted. "The power you promise is too much of a temptress for me to fail."

"You shouldn't think like that," Henry admonished, clasping a hand between his thighs as he lit a cigarette. Frank was startled by how he looked. It was a boyish posture, but the smoke and the conversation were naturally mature. "Have a little more passion for it, for Chrissakes. Passion will get you everywhere in life," he declared with a laugh, swinging a hand out.

"I'm sorry I'm not so enthusiastic about a war," Frank retorted wryly. "People are going to die, you know, people you know and care about. A war of this magnitude can promise all sorts of things, and the bad shit keeps me from being

passionate_, as you say. The good shit just gets me involved."_

Henry smiled at him and turned his stare away. "Hmm," he voiced ambiguously. "Have you ever read 'Liberty' by Edward Thomas?"

"I don't read," Frank grunted.

"It's a poem," Henry corrected.

Frank scowled. "I don't read poetry."

The boy thought this very amusing and laughed. "All right, Frankie," he nodded. "But it's about what you just said, in one way or another."

He scoffed. "All poetry and books and crap are like that. I don't know why people can't say what they mean. Like a normal motherfucker."

Henry grinned, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he released a puff of air in laughter. "They don't say what they mean because we like mysteries. Figuring out shit all by ourselves. Were everything so simple, we wouldn't have to go to war or even be subtle about it. Great revelations are the name of the game, and ambiguity keeps us," he paused and licked his lips, leaning forward and dramatically into Frank's space, "

passionate_."_

Frank pushed him off the desk. "Quit the philosophical bull. Don't you have something to do?" he'd growled.

In memory, Henry didn't look as lovely as usual, but Frank was sure that if they were face to face, he would be enamored all over again. And he could understand that conversation now. Apart of him had already known where Henry was coming from, but he supposed he hadn't wanted to think about it much. However necessary the war was, Frank had failed, just as Henry had predicted. But, at the same time, Henry's odd wisdom (more appropriate on an older, more cultivated man) rang with an innocence that made Frank feel badly for him.

Henry had never been in this position. In this awful in-between that Frank found himself in. He would never comprehend it because the boy had never been so completely overpowered. Frank supposed it was on account of Henry's strength and his own weakness. He was weak.

The door flung open, and a familiar face came into his make-shift office. His manor, his luxuries, his reputation were all gone. As untouchable to Frank as Frank now was. Agent Coleman did not greet Frank in any sensible fashion, but he wasn't entirely surprised. Hit Wizards, even ex-government employees, had no manners to speak of.

"Talk to Rahul, McAllister," Coleman demanded, beginning to pace in front of his desk. "He's fucking around and ruining things."

Frank raised an eyebrow, looking and feeling pathetic. "I can't do anything about it," he said, sounding like he had said that phrase over and over out loud and in his mind.

Coleman shook his head, his face red with frustration. "He's going to anger Brooks out into the open," he revealed. "All because Brooks outplayed him. You've heard about the device...we'll get our asses handed to us."

"You've an unhealthy fear of Henry Brooks," Frank told him mockingly. "You should get that looked at."

Swinging around quickly, Coleman glared at him as if he were the piece of shit he knew he was. "Fuck you," the Hit Wizard said, seething. "That kid is a maniac. I remember how he killed Backus and Maxim. He annihilated them. My entire team. Now there're only three of us left. Three! Anybody in their right mind would be scared of him. Rahul's making a mistake!"

He lifted a shoulder in the face of Coleman's fury. "Rahul makes a lot of mistakes," he merely responded.

"Brooks is already pissed as hell, what with his dad..." Coleman went on, and then stopped himself in barely perceptible alarm. "He wants us to stage an attack on someone close to Brooks, and fuck if that's a bad idea!"

Frank was frowning. "What about Denny Brooks?" he asked, a niggle of worry spreading through his chest.

Coleman glanced at him and then resumed his pacing. "They're missing. Denny Brooks and John McKay," he explained.

Frank gaped. "Missing?" he repeated, breathless now. "What the fuck do you mean, missing? Henry's just hiding them—"

"No, no," Coleman interrupted, swiping a hand in impatience. "Rahul's been in contact with a few spies. They're missing, and Brooks doesn't know where they are."

Denny and John missing? Frank sat down again, not realizing he'd risen, and stared down at his hands in disbelief. His friends...Denny. Who had gotten Frank out of that deadly rut he'd been in after the death of his wife and unborn child. Denny, who Frank was sure Henry would keep safe and out of harm's way. And John! His best friend and, undoubtedly, the most loyal man. John, who he hadn't seen or heard from since his betrayal. Since Frank had ceased contact with Henry and had gone his own way. His own way and yet not. He owned nothing now.

"Does Rahul know where they are?" he asked, his throat raw for some reason. When Coleman remained silent, he glanced up and saw that the man had stopped pacing so hysterically. He wasn't looking at Frank.

"No," he answered.

Frank caught his breath. "Does Henry suspect him?"

Coleman nodded. "You see why this is such a bad fucking idea? Brooks is mad, really mad, and Rahul wants to ask for an ass-kicking…" the agent went on. But Frank wasn't really listening.

If he knew Henry, and he thought that he did, the boy would likely be planning something. His anger at his missing father and friend would ensure it. Frank knew Rahul was behind what had happened, and he couldn't help but agree with Coleman. The man was asking for trouble. Very big trouble. And not just from Henry, but from Frank. Denny and John were supposed to be off-limits. That was a part of their deal. If a deal was even what this was.

He closed his eyes briefly, thinking back to the boy who he still couldn't help but love. Henry would never understand what Frank was feeling now. This terrifying, horrible guilt and self-hatred that took hold of him and wouldn't let go. This wanting to do something but not being able to. These chains around him that were self-inflicted because he was weak. So fucking weak.

Before Coleman left, he exclaimed, "Rahul's damaged pride will cost us the war!" Then he stormed out, slamming the ramshackle door to the poorly lit room Frank had imprisoned himself in.

And all he could think about Rahul's mistake was _good_.

.o00o.

There was a bad stench in the atmosphere around Mamoon. Rashidi wasn't surprised to see signs of war wherever he looked, but the scent of death and foreboding made him uneasy. It was very likely he only felt thus because of the relative peace that had fallen on his own home land. A sense of rehabilitation, of avidity for a new government and a new way made his people prone to good spirits.

Mamoon was its opposite. The city was tired and broken, not unlike many lands throughout the world, but this spoke of a dangerous handicap. This city, in contrast to everywhere else, would perish of an evil disease that ate it from the inside. Sickness was heavy in the earth and in the air.

Though Rashidi felt less than confident about being there, he nevertheless took a very deep breath before he climbed out of the plain black car. Two men followed him out, weapons relaxed at their sides. Rashidi straightened his Military issued uniform, having dressed this way to perhaps persuade a madman, and moved toward the warehouse before him. Contacts had given him the location of one of Rahul's hideouts, and he was sure the man was expecting him.

As a neutral, now that he was sufficiently removed from war by his peaceful surrender, it was important that Rashidi meet with Rahul and remain unharmed. Rahul had no quarrel with him, at present, and they should be able to speak plainly and civilly. Henry Brooks and his team would not be able to do so much. But Rashidi wasn't there on Henry's behalf, and he would make this known to Rahul right away. Hostility should, therefore, be unneeded in their conversation. Yet Rashidi was careful.

Arif Rahul was a dangerous man, and they were both aware that he held information sought after by many. Sought after by Henry Brooks, whom they both were wary of provoking. Rashidi would keep this meeting secret, so as not to be a cause of suspicion for Brooks. One that would likely get him killed. A suspicion that was both logical yet incorrect.

He was in Iraq to try to convince Rahul to surrender. There had been word, rumors really, that Rahul had tried without success to unwrap himself from around McAllister's finger. Word was that Henry hadn't trusted him, and Rahul's damaged ego had caused the recent bout of fighting. Rashidi didn't need to base fact on rumor, for he had heard the truth from Henry. His close confidence with the boy didn't mean they agreed. He couldn't blame Brooks for not buying into Rahul's story of being victimized, but he did blame Brooks for not doing what he was doing now. It was time to negotiate.

The hot, stale air did not bother him. Though the warehouse was grimy and dilapidated, he was beyond judgment. War made him less particular. Just as he thought, Rahul met him at the gates, and he appeared welcoming but judicious. They knew where they stood, facing each other, and Rashidi considered the prospect of this meeting ending up successful.

"I would say that this is a pleasant surprise," Rahul said by way of greeting. "But I am not surprised."

"Good," Rashidi grunted, walking into the warehouse and, when he had opened the gate, past the man. "I'd hate to be rude."

Rahul opened his mouth and laughed silently. He didn't begrudge him his amusement; Rashidi was rarely polite and always rude.

"Come," Rahul said. "Let us talk in privacy and peace. Your guards may mingle with mine."

Here, Rashidi found himself backed into a tiny, little corner. Rahul was obviously aware of his intention for amenity. His request of no guards in their meeting was a bid for trust that Rashidi had no choice but to adhere to. If he refused, a volatile man like Rahul would refuse any more entreaties in the future. Agreeing would not diminish the danger. Rashidi had a weapon at his side and Rahul likely did as well, not to mention, he was on Rahul's land and under his terms.

Which meant refusing wasn't an option.

"Very well," he gave in, motioning for his guards to stay behind. They were as skeptical of his orders as Rashidi was.

He followed Rahul to a sparse office on the second floor. Beneath them, a handful of men seemed to be moving crates onto a truck and speaking in fast, feverish Arabic. Rahul let him in and waved him into a seat.

"Shall I call for tea?" he asked Rashidi, a polite smile on his face.

"No," Rashidi responded bluntly. "I'd rather get to business, if you don't mind."

"I don't know where Frank McAllister is," Rahul said.

Rashidi gave him a look. "I think that's a lie, but I don't want to know where he is," he snapped. "I'm not here on Brooks's orders."

"Really?" A raised eyebrow. "_I_ think _that's_a lie. The boy is keen on killing Frank, now that his father has been murdered."

He hadn't known about that. Rashidi didn't bother to hide his surprise as he leaned forward in his seat. "Denny Brooks is dead?" he asked, wanting clarification.

"A week now," Rahul informed him, inclining his head. "Did he not tell you?"

Brooks had not told him, and Rashidi had spoken to him only a few days ago. It was all very strange. Had Henry known Rashidi would take it upon himself to talk with Rahul? Was he part of a game he didn't understand? Was Henry's nonchalance about Rahul, about finding McAllister, and his silence about his father's death some sort of manipulation? Brooks had mentioned that he had a way of finding McAllister himself, or was that a lie? A lie to carefully push Rashidi into action?

It was very possible Henry had played him, and Rashidi scowled in anger.

"Perhaps you are not under Henry's orders after all," Rahul surmised, gazing at him serenely. "You must have your own reasons for hating McAllister then. I am sorry to inform you I am unaware of his location—"

"I don't care about McAllister," Rashidi interrupted scathingly. "Brooks will find him, anyway. He's a dead man. I'm here to negotiate with you, Rahul."

Rahul did not seem surprised, which just made him angrier. "As I'm sure you know, I've surrendered my army to the Wizards," he continued, gritting his teeth at the lack of reaction his words caused. "My country is well on its way to reform. We are rebuilding and reorganizing. It is a good sign. Though I'm sure your own philosophies prevent you from believing it, Brooks's tactic has worked. There is unity and progress in my country. I would hope it is within your interests to see as much here, in your home and among your people."

The man was watching him, listening. He went on, despite not knowing what Rahul felt underneath his placid mask. "An end to the war is possible. I come here to ask that you surrender, as I have, for the betterment of business and humanity."

It took him a moment to realize what was happening, but when he did, fury burned through him and involuntarily cramped his muscles like knotted, irate strings. Rahul was laughing at him. Deep belly-laughs that seemed more appropriate on a jolly, fat man rather than this skeleton clothed in silk. Hatred flared afresh for Rahul, who Rashidi had never been and would never be able to tolerate. Never.

"I am sorry, I am sorry," Rahul chortled insincerely. "But you come here to suggest I am a rational man, when you and I know that I am not. More than that, I am a realistic man. Your reform will fail just as China's has failed. Nothing has changed Rashidi, and nothing will."

"China was sabotaged!" Rashidi said angrily. "The assassination caused the collapse, as I'm sure you know."

"Are you accusing me of something?" Rahul asked, seeming dreadfully amused.

Rashidi took a breath. "No," he disagreed. "Yet if you cannot see the good faith in surrendering for your people, then perhaps you can see it for selfish reasons. Money is involved, Rahul—"

"Money is always involved," he interrupted. "And you propose that your new government will pay me to surrender? That they will make sure I am comfortable and unaccountable?"

Rashidi, after a moment of silent, seething contemplation, begrudgingly nodded. "They would," he affirmed aloud.

"Is that not a contradiction of the ideals you speak of? You would let an obviously evil man live in luxury if he were to stand down, to surrender to good men?"

Taken aback, Rashidi didn't respond. He hadn't thought they were evil men, starting this war. He had believed them ambitious, and willing to sacrifice for a greater purpose. What Rahul spoke of was a part of them all, a part of their nature that rarely won over sensibility.

"You understand me now," Rahul continued, smiling. "Do you know why Henry Brooks will lose this war? Why he will lose everything?"

He did not respond, but Rahul wasn't expecting him to. "It is because he still loves and is loved. It is because he is both willing to destroy humanity and also covet it. He does not want change, or growth, but recovery. A rebirth of ideals and virtue that he has only heard of in myth. But they do not exist. There are no good men, and there never have been."

"So you would destroy any trace of it? Any chance of a recovery?"

"It doesn't exist, Rashidi. Brooks is chasing after a dream. Only a dream. I am not a victim of such ideals. The world will never be peaceful, never be virtuous. What morals there once were have always been deceptive. Beneath them, there is only the power of illusion, the comfort of lies, and the part of us that will never be silent. The part that seeks to only destroy. Brooks will understand this in the end. He has already—" Rahul paused and looked away. That small, soft grin never leaving. "He will recognize that there is no law, and in his lawlessness, the war will be lost. Because this war has nothing to do with humanity and everything to do with a monster disguised as a God."

Rashidi clenched his jaw forcefully. "You are a bitter man with a bitter purpose," he said.

Swinging his head around to smile at him, Rahul laughed shortly and said, "As we all are, sir."

There was a sudden sound of a struggle downstairs, and Rashidi frowned and quickly stood.

"Wait," Rahul's voice rang out loudly, even over the yelling. Rashidi turned to stare at the man, and found the barrel of a gun in his face. He gaped.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

Rahul tossed his head to the side, listening to the chaos downstairs. It went silent, very suddenly, forebodingly. "Your men put up a good fight, no doubt," Rahul whispered. His black eyes refocused on Rashidi. "I will not surrender. My way will not be compromised. Dreams of virtue have given me this power to destroy, and I have destroyed goodwill. You are wrong, Rashidi. I am sorry you must pay for it."

Rashidi abruptly knew just how wrong he was. "You can't," he said gruffly, scared despite himself. "Henry—"

"Henry Brooks is dead," Rahul cut him off. "His dreams are dead. And so are you."

He didn't hear the shot. Perhaps because it was one of Brooks's weapons, perhaps because it was too fast for him to notice. But then he knew nothing at all and nothing really mattered. Rashidi's body crumbled to the floor like a falling ziggurat, as graceful a death as Rashidi had hoped.

.o00o.

As he always seemed to be, Snape was shrouded in darkness as he hunched over a bubbling, hissing cauldron. The fumes had accumulated in every corner of the room, suffocating and heady. When Harry stepped into the lab, he instantly covered his mouth with his hand. The smell wasn't bothersome, but his eyes were burning from the too-noxious air. Snape did not turn around, his careful stirring was not interrupted, but by the stiffening of his back, he knew Harry was there.

"Have you come with more accusations, Potter?" he inquired, his voice sibilant and husky. "Or are you here to apologize, or perhaps beg that I not kill you where you stand?"

Harry dropped his hand from his face and observed as Snape added a pinch of something to the animated brew. It coughed and puffed before stilling, its greenish hue becoming a darkly black.

"You could if you wanted to," he responded quietly.

Snape turned from his worktable and stared at Harry with a patience that was disingenuous and wrathful. Snape took his time before saying anything more, and when he did speak, it was not with acceptance or mercy. "You dare lay a hand on Draco?" he said calmly, no change in his expression.

Harry's head twitched very slightly. "We both gave as good as we got," he claimed. "You're welcome to at least try and kill me, if you'd like. I can't keep myself from fighting back, unfortunately."

Snape merely watched him. His narrowed black stare did not frighten Harry, as he was sure Snape hoped it would. "I have done Draco a wrong, perhaps—"

"Be silent," Snape told him. "I will hear nothing more of it."

Harry only shrugged. "If that's what you think is best," he retorted, not at all trying to provoke a reaction, though he acknowledged, belatedly, that his words were anything but civil.

"I think it is best, yes," Snape said, turning back to his cauldron and waving his wand to lower the burner. "I think you are too far gone for retribution, or even help, if I were inclined to lend you it. I am not, in that context, at least."

He faced Harry again. "What do you want?" he asked bluntly.

"The potion is ready," Harry said.

"As I'm sure you concluded, given I have not spoken of it," Snape observed. "Will you activate it now?"

"No," he answered, rather quickly. "There's more to be done."

"More to kill is what you mean, without equivocation," the Potions Master corrected. "Are you now living off of revenge?"

Harry thought about this, and then raised a shoulder in response. Snape continued to study him. "No, I don't suppose you are living at all," he guessed.

"Have it ready for when I need it," Harry said, beginning to walk away. "I think in a week, maybe more. It'll be time then."

He was almost out the door when Snape spoke. Just as the room was shrouded in a terrible, toxic fog, so was his meaning when he asked Harry, "Have you mourned yet?"

Harry turned to stare at him again. "Mourned?" he asked, in honest confusion. "Mourned what?" he whispered.

He left Snape on his own with his potions, standing in the dim light of the room with alarm and another emotion, another strange feeling, unmasked on his face. Harry vaguely recognized it as fear.

.o00o.

Mina waited for him in her office. He had sent word of his arrival beforehand, knowing she would appreciate it, and came to her without their usual pleasantries. Today, after all, was all about business. Alejandro Guillermo sat in a seat in front of her desk, looking pensive but happy to see him. He shook hands and accepted a drink.

"You've heard about Rashidi?" Harry asked them, knocking back the dry alcohol.

"We have," Alejandro answered, his forehead notched in sorrow. "Rahul didn't want it to be secret. Africa is enduring, however, despite Rahul's plans."

Harry nodded, pouring another drink. "I am glad of it," he said, knowing he didn't sound particularly glad at all. "I have each coordinate. You have the explosives?"

"Enough to blow the world into the abyss," Mina laughed. "I will accompany you."

Harry dipped his head and turned to Alejandro expectantly. The man laced his fingers across his chest. "I will wait here," he answered the unasked question.

"Very well," Harry agreed, offering his arm to Mina. Alejandro rose and kissed her on both cheeks, lingering only a little. His whispered goodwill made her cheeks turn rosy, but she seemed happy for the attention. "We will be moving fast, Mina. Apparating is what Wizards call this form of travel. It can be disorientating, I'm afraid."

Mina quickly reached out and grabbed up her bottle of liquor. "Aqua vitae," she cheered, grinning. "I am ready."

The feeling of being stretched, coiled, and shrunk flew through her nauseatingly as Harry Apparated. It didn't last very long, thankfully, and when they landed, Mina was proud that she barely stumbled. Her urge to vomit passed after a healthy swig from the bottle. They were in front of a large bundling in the middle of field crops that looked to be corn. Harry steadied her briefly before unshrinking one of the crates with his magic. They quickly unloaded the prepared C-4 and rigged the detonators. Mina took eight packs in a large duffle bag and nodded to Harry.

"Compass system, Mina," he reminded her unnecessarily. He handed her a gun. "If there are guards I miss, kill them. Go."

She ran. The first and second package stuck easily to the front doors, Harry's yell echoing her movement. She sprinted down the length of the building and turned the sharp corner just as the doors flew open and the device activated. Sounds of battle followed her feet. Two more explosives stuck to the west wall before she was off again. Around the back, there were three guards quickly babbling into their headsets, throwing away their now useless guns to presumably pick up their standard ones. Mina shot them swiftly, her practiced eye that Andro complimented often preventing the need for a second shot.

Two more were slapped on the south wall and two more on the east. She sprinted into Harry's battle and shot from behind. Before more men could pool out of the door, she shut it with a kick and ran towards her partner. She grabbed his arm, and they Apparated just as Harry detonated the bombs. Fire licked her heels but they were gone before it could do her harm.

The next warehouse was in another orchard, though this one looked to be full of oranges. They encountered no difficulty in the second attack. From fields to a populated city, they disposed of each and every warehouse in North America. Then they moved on to Europe, to Asia, to the cold hell of Greenland. In the east, there was more of a fight, and, where it took only two minutes every where else, there they spent another sixty seconds killing their way to the warehouses. There was no real fight in it, thanks to the device and Harry's power.

The last warehouse was in England. They blew it, and the fresh bodies surrounding it, up, but this time, they stayed to watch the destruction. Smoldering billows of fire and smoke rose to the sky, flowering and spreading with heat as stone crumbled around them. Mina felt the heat on her face, dry and biting, and she took another drink and watched, as if hypnotized, as the fire consumed everything in its path.

Beside her, Harry observed the wreckage with an expressionless eye. They took their leave when there was nothing left to burn.

Andro hugged her tightly when they returned. "How did we do?" she slurred happily.

He glanced at his watch. "An hour and twenty minutes, almost exactly," Alejandro told her. She cheered and emptied the bottle. "I see you were able to work efficiently despite the drink," he laughed, motioning towards her.

"Of course!" she said with mock offense. "How do you think I ever get anything done?"

He grinned at her before turning to Harry. "They are all destroyed, I take it?" he questioned.

Harry sat down. "All but what was stolen. A few cargo ships have been taken in the last few months, but they are of little consequence compared to the amount we disposed of today."

Andro hummed in agreement and led Mina to her sofa. "Are you sad to see your creations wasted thus?"

Harry's face was blank. "No," he revealed. "No, I'm not sad."

"You're not happy, either," Mina said, licking her lips and smiling. "You've done well today, young man. There's little left for Frank to fight us with! This will all soon be over."

"It's never over," Harry said, a bit snappishly. Alejandro looked as though he recognized this truth as well.

"Don't be so cynical," Mina chastised him. "Look at how Africa has done! You were right, Henry Brooks, about how this would end. People have noticed your accomplishments already. There's talk of peace and much hope for it."

Alejandro saw the boy's face clearly. He saw much more than Mina could when Henry responded, quietly, "I was wrong about how this would end."

Her gleeful expression became confused then. "If I am cynical, Mina," he continued, "it is only because I really have nothing to be happy about. And if I want it that way—" he stopped and did not look at them. "Please respect it."

He rose very abruptly and moved to the door. Mina got to her feet quickly, making to speak or hold him back, but Alejandro reached out to stop her. "Let him go," he murmured to her soothingly. She obliged.

They watched him leave, both thinking differently upon his departure. Both concerned but resigned.

The war would end, yet of Henry Brooks, they knew not what conclusion would befall him. As friends they worried, but, as people, they understood.

.o00o.

When she had finally gotten the little girl to sleep, Molly still did not go to bed, despite her exhaustion. It had been eight days since Harry had shown up with the girl, and, since then, there hadn't been a word from him. By questioning her, gently and kindly, Molly had learned that the little girl's name was Cassie, and that her parents had died on the day she was brought to the Burrow.

She was tiny, only just turned six perhaps, but nightmares kept the child up during the night more often then not. Molly had barely gotten sleep, and consequently, neither had Arthur. The child was no burden, and Molly was no stranger to comforting distraught little ones. Yet the girl was more damaged than her children ever were, and perhaps ever would be. Her dreams startled her awake, screaming for her dead parents, who Molly presumed had died in some kind of fire. Cassie was deathly afraid of it, in any case.

Most times, the tragedy did not bother her. In the day, she settled for drawing pictures and chatting away to Molly about nonsense things. But she still asked for her mom and dad most days, and, at certain times, she would inquire where her Uncle Henry had gone, and when he would be back.

Molly did not think he would return. She had spoken with Arthur about it, and they knew that Harry had known the little girl's parents, perhaps very well, and his abandonment of Cassie told Molly that he was of no mind to consider her. Something had happened.

In the days after Cassie had come to them, they had realized more than just the child's and Harry's loss. Cassie was a witch, they were glad to find out. On the third day, she had unwittingly Levitated the furniture in Ginny's room, stuck in some hellish nightmare and unable to stop herself. Molly and Arthur set about teaching her, in between soothing her to sleep, about the magical world. As traumatized as Cassie was, she was amiable most times, yet her presence meant more than tragic circumstances of war.

Molly tried not to believe Arthur's truth, for her husband had relayed the conversation with Harry and had assured his accusations as undeniable fact. Her Harry, her Chris, was the reason for all of the death and destruction plaguing the world? It was too much to believe, all at once, and so Molly was taking her time thinking on it. Yet, despite all of the evidence to prove Harry was truly a…despicable person, Molly was not of the mind he was the tyrannical, murderous terrorist Arthur had suggested (in one of his more dramatic moments).

All Molly saw in this new vision of Harry was a child much like Cassie. A child who needed to be taken care of; and Molly would do so, once she got over the shock of this revelation. Once Harry came back for poor little Cassie and made peace with Arthur. If that ever happened, of course. No, she was not skeptical of Arthur's change in perspective. She knew her husband to be as wise as he was foolish, and he would cave when Harry returned to them. He would not agree, but he would accept. Though Harry's absence had only served to fuel Arthur's fight, that is until Cassie had been brought to them.

He was humbled by her loss, and more pensive than Molly had ever seen him. She would speak with her husband at times, beside the fire after Cassie had finally gone to sleep, and, though he was largely unresponsive, she knew he listened. Molly had yet to speak sharply to him, but she was losing patience with his melancholy quickly. She was attempting to get more out of him now, late that night after a chaotic day at the Ministry, and whispering so as to not wake the little girl upstairs.

"What did Kingsley say?" she asked, for the second time.

"Oh," Arthur came to attention, turning away from the fire and running a hand down his face roughly. "Only that he suspects more violence to come of it. He sees that there is something that's happened, whereas others don't."

Molly pursed his lips. "The Ministry thinks it is only the height of the war? They did the same in 1981, you remember."

He made a sound in the back of his throat, both a scoff and a laugh. "And Harry defeated Voldemort, abruptly ending everything," he agreed. "But we don't expect a miracle like that. This isn't a Magical war."

Molly knew this. She knew the difference. Magical wars were secretive, subtle and dangerous. But this war was unlike any other that Wizarding Kind had fought. It was one world facing another, both vastly different but strangely the same, and with no common ground or miracles to hope for. Their lives, and their world, seemed to not be in the hands of only one man. Yet Molly and Arthur knew the truth. It was right that there was no man to stop the war. It was right that there was a boy to stop it, and they were aware, devastatingly aware, that Harry was moving. That he was aiming for an end.

Arthur, in his own way, approved. But there was, besides the obvious spread of violence and pandemonium, a dangerous tinge to these developments. There was a hazard to the boy they knew and loved (Arthur would never be able to deny he loved Harry dearly) that made them wonder if peace was worth it. Harry, in his actions, suggested there was a reckless haplessness about him. A terrible state of the mind and heart that could ruin or revive everything. Molly felt as if all her hopes and dreams were in a rock, teetering on the edge of a cliff, chancing a roll backward or forward or beyond. Whatever its future, there was the almost sure prediction that the steadfast rock would be destroyed. If Harry wasn't broken already.

She could tell that this was what weighed heavily on her husband's soul. It hurt and frightened her just as much.

"Harry is risking a lot this way," Arthur murmured. "Though he is saving time. Lives too, if we're to think about the greater good."

"You don't believe in it," she argued gently. "It was a line between you and Dumbledore that could never be broken."

Arthur nodded briefly. "But I followed him anyway," he said, before sighing. "Must we always be unsure of what is right and what is wrong?"

She laid a hand on his arm. "If we were sure, my love, I imagine it would be us leading the world to war and not Dumbledore, or Harry," Molly answered.

"Or You-Know-Who, for that matter," he laughed humorlessly. "Us lead the world, Molly? My dear, you are silly."

A light smile lit up her face. "We shall always disagree, I think, but we can only change things once it's over. Harry will end this," she said confidently, though her concern for the boy was underneath her sure comment. Arthur saw it clearly.

"And we agree with an end," he mentioned.

She nodded and sat back, taking her turn at staring into the fire. Molly thought for a moment and then whispered, "What will he do?" She sounded about as scared as she felt.

Arthur did not look at her. "Something costly," he responded. "I don't blame you for worrying, dearest. I...I am worried as well."

Molly knew this was her chance to tell Arthur how she felt on the matter of Harry, to lecture him quite soundly, but hurried steps on the stairs interrupted them. Cassie came hurtling into the room, her eyes wide with fright, and Molly was up and on her feet instantly. She was prepared to open her arms and comfort the girl, to hug away the lingering nightmare, but she stopped when she saw that Cassie was shaking terribly.

"There's something outside!" she told them.

A whistling howl interrupted Molly's next words, and suddenly there was a crash loud enough to shatter her ears. Glass flew in every direction, a wave of flames suddenly careening down the staircase. Cassie's shriek made her move, and she grabbed the little girl up to her and made for Arthur. He was standing in the middle of the room, his wand out as smoke billowed from every nook and cranny.

"Stay away from the windows!" he shouted, just as another explosion rocked the Burrow. Rubble began to cascade down, and Molly ran over to her husband quickly. "Into the Floo!" he commanded. "Go to Grimmauld!"

"Arthur!" she yelled, not wanting to leave him. Not ready to leave him in their burning home.

"Take her and go!"

Her shaking hand clasped a handful of powder, and she was screeching her destination as the fire activated and took her away. She landed in the parlor of Grimmauld Place and set Cassie down. The girl was inconsolable, not that Molly tried to soothe her. Her eyes remained fixed on the fireplace.

Vaguely, she knew that Sirius was there, asking her questions. Molly did not answer.

She waited.

The Floo startled her when it flared to life. Molly moved forward and grabbed her husband quickly, barely able to thank whatever existed for his safety. He held her just as close.

"I couldn't save the house," he said once she'd pulled away, shaking his head in sorrow. "It's gone, Molly."

"It's all right, it's all right," she hushed him. "We're safe."

"What happened?" Sirius asked, invading their conversation worriedly. "Arthur...?"

"We were attacked," her husband said, his voice strained. His eyes moved away from Molly to Sirius, and then, finally, they landed on Cassie. Molly realized the little girl was trembling, silent tears falling down her cheeks, and she picked her up and held her. Cassie shivered as she wrapped Molly into a very tight hug.

"Attacked?" Sirius repeated, looking alarmed. "Did you see who it was? Why would they attack the Burrow?"

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, successfully dislodging the ash there. "I didn't see who they were, it was just...people. An army."

While they spoke, Sirius shut the Floo and led them to seats. Molly sat and cradled Cassie to her chest, murmuring nonsense words until the tremors stopped. "We should call the Order," Sirius was saying, looking them over closely. "If this was an attack on us, then someone must have let out about it. Was it people from the last war? People from this war? Why on earth would they attack the Burrow—?"

"Sirius," Arthur interrupted. "They used Muggle weapons."

That stopped him. Molly watched the varying emotions play out on Sirius's face. "Well," he finally spoke, clearing his throat. "Soldiers have been known to attack randomly, only its bloody bad luck they would go after you—"

"I don't think this was random," Arthur said.

Sirius frowned in confusion, and then his expression opened up, and he seemed frustrated and disbelieving. "Not _this_again," he sighed. "Harry wouldn't do this, Arthur how can you—"

"You _told_him?" Molly snapped at her husband, though she was quiet enough not to startle her charge. Her voice had a very noticeable edge of ice, however. "Arthur, how could you?"

"I only told Sirius and you, Molly, in confidence," he said, having the decency to look ashamed of himself.

"You don't believe this rot about Harry, do you, Molly?" Sirius asked.

She did not answer. Molly examined her husband carefully and saw that he had something on his mind. Something important, by the looks of it.

"I think…they didn't destroy the Burrow," Arthur revealed slowly. "They could have killed us all with that bomb. They didn't."

"They wanted you alive?" said Sirius.

Arthur frowned. "No," he shook his head negatively. "None of them could get past the field, not one. The bombs they shot...those exploded before they hit the house. I think...it might not have been destroyed. Perhaps."

Sirius fidgeted where he stood. "You can't go back there now! We'll gather the Order and go tomorrow," he decided. "You'll stay here however long you need."

"Thank you, Sirius," Molly said for them both.

"They couldn't get past the Wards," Arthur suddenly blurted, his face the picture of confusion. "They were trying to get us out because the Wards kept them away."

"Our Wards did that?" Molly couldn't help but exclaim. "Bill did add to them last summer, Arthur, but they aren't strong enough—"

"Those Wards were put up without our consent," he stopped her, finally looking up to meet her eyes. "By someone who anticipated an attack by Muggles."

"Arthur, I know you've lost your house and everything, but my godson did not attack you!" Sirius nearly shouted, his eyes wide with anger.

Cassie made a distressed sound, and Molly ran a hand down her back. "Hush, Sirius!" she admonished, soothing the girl in her arms.

"No, no," her husband said, waving a hand. "Harry would never hurt us. He...no, he saved our lives," he went on quietly. "It was Harry; I'd know his magic anywhere and he—" Arthur looked at Molly, his gaze hollow with guilt and resignation. "They were Harry's Wards," he said.

Later on, in the early hours just before dawn, Molly came down the stairs to search for Arthur. She had tried to sleep, but her mind would not let her rest at all. Cassie had cried herself silent before falling away into slumber. Her tortured sobbing had torn at Molly's heart, but there was little she could do except hold her. She would speak to Snape, maybe, when the Order showed in the morning, about getting Cassie some Dreamless Sleep.

She found Arthur where she left him, sitting by the fire, in a mirror of how he would have spent the night at home, were it not burned to the ground. So much had happened in one night that Molly could not bear to think of it. The shock of losing her house, of being attacked, had not yet worn off.

"Come to bed, Arthur," she said to him. "We have a few hours before the others get here. Come sleep."

"I _can't_ sleep, Molly, I can't," he declined forcefully. "How am I to deal with this? I haven't understood what's happened, or what I can _do_."

She sighed. "You can rest and see what can be done later," she told him. "Brooding on it now will only exhaust you."

"Have I made the wrong choice?" he spoke over her. "Have I been bad to him?"

Molly thought on this and resolved that she would have her say. It was perhaps the worst timing, or the best, but she would risk her husband's upset for this.

She took a breath. "You have," she agreed. "You have forgotten that Harry has protected our family for all the years that we have known him. You have slighted him, by casting him out of our family. By denying him our love and care. You made him helpless, Arthur, and unable to turn to us for guidance. Now we both know he cares little about himself. And he will hurt himself because you would not understand."

"How could I?" Arthur questioned harshly, his voice hushed. "How could I understand what he's done?"

"Not what he's done; it _is_ unacceptable, but what he _is_. First and foremost, he is our son, and you forgot that when he confided in you. He did not ask for understanding of his cause, but understanding of himself. And you hurt him terribly."

Arthur took a great, shuddering breath. "I can't look at him without seeing what he's caused, wanting some sort of justice for it. But Molly," he said, staring up at her, "he's not our son."

"He's as good as," she snapped. "And as for punishment, we can easily treat him how we would if it were Fred and George in trouble."

He laughed bitterly. "How, my dear?" he queried. "This is much more than bringing a toilet seat home."

She came to him then, sat beside him, and held him close. She smiled. "We ground him, of course," Molly whispered. "We take away his broom."

They grinned at each other, but their smiles did not last as she reached out to touch his cheek. "But you do not take away his family," she told him, despair clenching her heart. "Not his family, Arthur. It is worse than anything he could have done."

He turned away from her, but not in malice. Pain collapsed his face as he closed his eyes. They sat together in relative silence, all but for the creaks of the old house. Finally, he looked at her and smiled. "How are you so right, Mollywobbles? Why don't I listen to you more?" he teased lovingly.

She held his face and kissed him chastely, whispering, "I'm _never _wrong, my love."


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

A/n: Wow. These chapters are like...hard work and everything. Review?

To Amazonia: I love you.

Warnings for this chapter: language, violence, mentions of CD, and epic battles.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Twenty-Two

With a sense of purpose quite unlike his usual attitude for, well, anything, Ron Weasley made his way to the dungeons. He suspected (and this was what he needed strength for) that Draco Malfoy would be there, that he would know where Harry was. Ron wasn't any good at persuasion, and he was pretty much pants at being civil to those he didn't like, so he hoped, perhaps unrealistically, that Harry was simply hiding in his rooms. If he wasn't, Ron would have to be nice to Draco Malfoy.

Which was not something he was looking forward to, at all.

His long strides got him down from Gryffindor tower quickly, but he slowed a bit in the halls. It wouldn't do to look suspicious. He was supposed to be in class in an hour, though he didn't plan on going. Malfoy never took breakfast in the Great Hall, so it was inevitable that Ron would see him this morning. He imagined that Harry and Draco shared breakfast together, like a right couple would, and it made Ron's insides squirm.

It wasn't that he had a problem with two boys or anything; if he did, he thought Charlie might throttle him. His only issue, really, was Harry's choice in partner. Draco Malfoy, honestly? The git was a ponce, a show-off, and just as sly as his powerful father. Ron wasn't stupid enough to think that Draco was all talk, either. The boy was dreadfully intelligent and mean when he wanted to be. Cruel. Ron had been on the receiving end of his sharp tongue many a time, though he had yet to see the true snake in Malfoy. He knew it was there, hidden, though it had come out with Dumbledore's death, and he suspected Draco's new-found heroic status was mostly due to the blond's sly maneuvering of the fickle public. Malfoy was as manipulative as they came.

But Ron also knew this was likely what attracted Harry to him. He was under no disillusions that his best friend was, well, a Gryffindor. Although Harry didn't seem to be a Slytherin either. Harry was just Harry, really. Awfully clever and everlastingly loyal and mean, when he wanted to be, and capable. Very capable of violence, but also of peace. Ron reckoned it had to do with how Harry grew up, and he didn't blame his friend being as he was now. Besides his malice (and Harry really could be malicious, at least to his enemies), there was no one Ron would want at his back other than Harry. His friend knew how to survive, how to get what he wanted, and Ron figured that if Draco Malfoy was what he wanted, then Harry should have him. There wasn't a lot Harry had, anyway.

Ron wasn't stupid, though. He was aware that there was truth in Hermione's conspiracy theories. Harry was likely knee-deep in the war, at present, and probably has been for a long while. It didn't bother Ron much, because if Harry was loyal then so was Ron. His best mate loved Ron's family, loved Ron like a brother, and if his brother was a sort of troublemaker (an understatement, no doubt, but whatever) than he would accept that. He tolerated Fred and George, after all, and they could be just as bad. Setting a spider, however fake, on their phobic brother was worse, in Ron's eyes, than anything Harry had ever done.

Yet Ron was frank with himself. There was a part of Harry he would never understand. The part of Harry that thought the deaths of millions could lead to something good. The grandeur of Harry as a whole, who thought anything could be sacrificed to change the world. But Ron's family had been protected, even when attacked, because Harry had a very short list of those who were to remain unhurt and untouched. It was probably selfish to be grateful for Harry's love, but Ron was satisfied. He could sleep at night knowing Harry had thought about them and had prepared. And though he would never comprehend Harry's need to do something so horrible, he wouldn't need to. Harry was his brother in all but blood, and that was, verily, that.

He made it to the dungeons, then, and outside the hall to Harry's rooms. Ron knocked twice, and then three times more to make sure Harry wouldn't ignore him. If Malfoy was the only one there, Ron would wait five minutes and then leave. The Slytherin was never accommodating.

Fortunately, the door swung open only after a minute of waiting, and Harry peered at him closely before nodding. "Ron," he greeted.

Ron lost his smile, a bit taken aback at Harry's rather stoic tone of voice. "Harry, mate, the Burrow's been attacked," he blurted right over his insecurity. Harry's expression fell into panic, and so Ron hastened to explain. "Mum and dad are fine, but the house was burnt down and all. They're at Grimmauld, with Sirius, and—wait, what're you doing?"

Harry had shut the door behind him and moved forward. "C'mon, you want to check on them, yeah?" Harry asked.

Ron grinned. "They told me not to come," he revealed, catching up easily with Harry's slightly wobbly strides. "But I knew you could get us there, mate."

They moved quickly down the hall until they reached what looked like an abandoned office. "This was Waffling's office," Harry explained without Ron asking. "Doxies got in, and there was a Boggart, but the caretaker hasn't cleaned them out yet."

"Filch is a bit loony," Ron told him, watching as Harry gathered some Floo powder out of his pocket and lit the fire. "Why didn't we use your fireplace?"

"Draco would ask questions," Harry said.

Ron wondered if Harry was having a problem with his boyfriend. He wasn't as gleeful about it as he should have been. Perhaps Harry's current mood had to do with Draco? Anger spurted inside of him, accelerating his heart. Whatever Malfoy had done, Ron threatened mentally, he would certainly pay for it.

His thoughts were cut off when the Floo flared to life, and Harry nudged him in. "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!" Ron shouted, throwing the powder down. The Floo gathered him up quickly and rocketed him through the fireplace. He landed awkwardly in Sirius's home, but he managed to stay on his feet. Ron moved away from the fireplace and had a look around.

It was just as dingy and dusty as usual, but, oddly, Ron felt comforted that Grimmauld was largely unchanged. Harry came out of the Floo then, stumbling a little, as Ron had, and they both turned toward the hall as rushed footsteps were heard. Sirius burst into the parlor, looking as though he'd just woken up.

"Harry! Ron!" he exclaimed. "What are you lot doing here?"

Sirius hugged Harry and slapped Ron on the back, happy to see them despite their forbidden visit. Ron noticed Harry stiffening in Sirius's embrace, but said nothing.

"Where's—" he started, but a yell from the kitchen made him choke on his own words with a cringe.

"Ron? Ron!" his mum cried, rushing into the room. "I told you not to come, dear! What did I say? What did I say?"

Ron grimaced. "Not to come?"

"That's right! I suppose you'll be wanting breakfast, then! Your father is no mood to punish you, you fortunate young man. Come on, then, into the kitchen!"

He was happy to see his mum, and he hugged her tightly as he walked toward breakfast. His stomach obligingly grumbled at the smell of his mum's cooking. When Harry passed her, however, with Sirius in tow, she reached out and caught his arm.

Ron observed the short, awkward moment of his mum looking sheepish but doubtlessly happy as she gazed at Harry and Harry's rather expressionless visage. "Harry, dear," his mother said, lowly enough that Ron had to strain his ears to pick up her voice. "It's good to see you. Very good to see you."

Something in Harry's face shattered, and he smiled, truly smiled, for the first time that morning. He reached out and put his hand over hers.

"You're all right?" he asked.

"Quite," she smiled. "I do believe Arthur would like to speak with you," she said, and noticed, just as Ron did, that his blank expression was back. "And there's another who has been asking for you."

A brief pain must have plagued Harry then, for he clenched his eyes shut and nodded stiffly. Ron wondered what his mum was talking about, but found out quickly when he arrived in the kitchen. A little girl, tiny enough to still carry, sat beside his father at the table. Her hair was almost Weasley red, but lighter and kissed with blond. It was cut short in a bob, and her cheeks were rosy, but not freckled. She was picking at her breakfast and looking morose, and when Ron came in, her face held a sort of shy fear that threw Ron off. Vaguely, he noticed her eyes were a deep blue, before he was too offended and bemused to care. He had never scared children before...

And then her demeanor changed completely. The smile that erupted on her face was jarring, to say the least. Ron suspected she didn't smile much, and, if she did, not like this. She hopped up from her seat, nearly spilling her juice, and shouted, "Uncle Henry!"

She flew towards Ron, who gaped at her, but she sprinted passed him and flung herself at Harry. He caught her, and held her tightly. "Where've you been!" the girl demanded, pulling back to slap Harry lightly.

"Been busy, Cass," Harry grunted, making to set her down. She clung to him in defiance.

"The bad people came last night and took away the Measleys home!" she told him. "It was scary! Where were you?"

"Weasleys, you mean," he corrected, moving to the table. She let him place her down in her seat, but only because he was sitting next to her.

She huffed. "That's what I said!" Her eyes flickered to Ron and Sirius as they sat across from her. "Uncle Henry...where's mom and dad?"

Ron was relieved, despite the girl's title of 'uncle' for Harry, that this wasn't some mistake of his friend's. He mentally admonished himself. Harry would have told him if he'd had a daughter. And, really, Harry wasn't one for girls and all.

But Harry stopped him from his blathering thoughts. His friend looked as though he was struggling to remain seated. In an abstract way, Harry seemed as if he was just struggling to remain. His worry that Malfoy had done something was laid to rest. A new concern was born instead. Harry and Malfoy had squabbled before, but never with these results. And why was the little girl staying with his family, anyway?

"They're busy, Cassie," Harry answered, after a long pause.

"But why do I have to stay here?" she cried. "What about the manor? You could take care of me—"

"Don't you like it with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley?" he grunted, interrupting her.

Cassie's pout turned into fear that his mum and dad were offended. "Oh, I do!" she claimed, turning to smile at his mum, who returned it as she shoveled bacon onto Ron's plate. "But why am I here?" the girl pressed. "Uncle Denny could take care of me!"

Harry abruptly got up. "Excuse me," he said, and left the room.

Cassie seemed put-out, but not upset. Sirius rose as well, but the drop of a pan halted him. Ron looked at his mother, who had fixed her stare where Harry had fled. Her expression was knowing, and concerned. "Sirius, don't," she said.

Ron glanced at Sirius, who opened his mouth to protest. His mother spoke again, however, but this time it was to his dad. "Arthur, you go," his mum commanded.

Obediently, his dad nodded and rose from his seat. He moved quickly to the parlor and left them alone in the kitchen. Ron watched him go, blocking out Sirius's disagreement with his mum, and then looked at Cassie. She stared back at him nervously.

Ron wasn't hungry anymore.

.o00o.

"She should know," was the first thing Harry said to Arthur when he came into the parlor. "She saw them die," he said.

Arthur stopped before Harry, who was leaning against the sofa. His back was ramrod straight, and his eyes were staring, unseeing, into the shadows of the fire. Grimmauld place had windows, but there was never any light coming through them. When Arthur's family had first arrived there, that summer before the end of the war, his children had speculated that even sunshine was frightened of Sirius's ancestral home. He thought there might be some truth in it.

"She's a child," Arthur said, rather sadly when he thought on Cassie. "She doesn't understand, and she won't want to. She has nightmares almost every night, Harry, so a part of her knows."

Harry wiped a hand across his face tiredly. "I'm sorry for leaving her here," he apologized.

"Can you take care of her?" Arthur asked, knowing the answer already.

The boy in front of him shook his head but froze in the movement, his chin tilted to the side. "No," he breathed. "No, I can't take care of her."

The 'I can't even take care of myself' remained unspoken, but it was between them, in the air, like the sky. Massive and sure.

"Then she'll stay with us," he said, watching Harry's hunched posture. "It's not a problem."

"I'll send money for her—"

"We don't need the money."

"You know I'll send it anyway," Harry said. He suddenly turned around to look at Arthur, and Arthur found that he had missed the boy's bright green eyes. He had missed Harry, among their family, still so small and helpless. He was just like the little boy he'd found in his shed. Harry was bigger, yes, taller and more mature but...his eyes were the same.

Something in Arthur caved beneath his gaze. "Harry," he began, stumbling over his words. "Harry, I didn't mean what I said, about you staying away from us. I was...very upset."

Though Harry was expressionless, there was a lightening of his stare that could only be the beginnings of hope. Arthur was glad but also distraught to see it.

"I can't ever condone your actions," he reminded Harry, swiftly moving on when he saw the light dim. "But I won't let you not be apart of our family. Molly gave me a right talking to, and I realized myself that I acted rashly. I don't agree, Harry, but you're as good as a son to me, and that will never change."

Arthur didn't know what he expected Harry's reaction to be, but it hadn't been fear. Harry fidgeted where he stood and licked his lips.

"All right," he accepted, and yet it sounded as if Harry had simply rejected Arthur's apology. There was certainly no expression on Harry's face. The boy had not relaxed in Arthur's presence.

He thought he knew why, but every part of Harry seemed to be boarded away from any questions. Harry was behind a shelter now, completely encased in a world that was safe but recluse. He was an abstemious, battered boy, not unlike his younger days, but there was so much more now that he had lost. And there was no question that he had lost something, and Arthur knew not to speak of it. Arthur had no right, not when he and his makeshift son were still separated.

"Cassie has magic, as I'm sure you've already noticed," Harry was saying. "I can get her anything she might need from Diagon. I've put a list together, but if you'd like to add anything...she'll need new clothes and all—"

"Harry," he interrupted. "Molly and I can take care of it."

It was the truth, at least. Molly still had some of Ginny's clothes, a bit big for Cassie, but usable. Not to mention the extra money Molly and Arthur had, now that most of their boys were independent and providing for themselves. Cassie would not be wanting, between their budget and Harry's. Arthur knew there was no stopping Harry from adding money to the Weasleys' vault. He only hoped it wasn't a ridiculous amount.

"Please just—" Harry sighed. "Just let me repay you."

Arthur looked away from the boy for a moment. When he turned back, Harry was watching him. "You can repay us by continuing to protect our family," he said. "As you've done since you came to us. As you did without me knowing. You saved our lives last night, Harry."

He wished he could read minds. There was a terrible agony beneath the surface of Harry's closed-off appearance. Arthur seemed to be saying everything wrong, and it hurt him to see the boy so fragile. Because, for all of Harry's strength in remaining immovable, detached, Arthur could clearly see how badly off Harry truly was. And judging by the looks at Harry – before he had fled – from the other occupants of the kitchen, they knew it as well.

"I can do that," Harry suddenly said, nodding strongly. "I'll make sure nothing happens to anyone else."

Arthur smiled at him gently, but did not receive one in return. That was okay. He hadn't expected it.

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," Harry said softly, moving towards the Floo, "Give my love to them."

He said it as though he would never see them again. It alarmed Arthur greatly, and he made to move forward.

"Harry—"

But Harry was gone, in a flash of green fire, and with no assurances spoken. Arthur had no choice but to stare at the grate, wondering if it was too late to change whatever decision Harry had made.

He knew, with everything in him, that there was no swaying the boy. Arthur resolved to pick up the pieces of the mess Harry would leave behind. As he did for all of his children.

.o00o.

Rufus Scrimgeour gazed down at the letter on his desk with keen, scrupulous eyes. There was no name at the bottom of it, no clues as to who it was from, and the package seemed relatively harmless. It had been scanned for curses and jinxes before arriving in his office, as was custom, but Scrimgeour was a cautious man and had run his own series of tests before opening it.

Anyone having been in the Department of Mysteries, and specifically the Hall of the Prophecies, would recognize what the strange device was fashioned after. A set of round, glowing globes had tumbled out of the magically expanded book box. Four of them sat before Scrimgeour, atop the letter, and sparkled at him in mocking hope. If the letter were at all honest, these little orbs would destroy the guns that had killed thousands upon thousands of Wizards and Witches in the last year. If the devices were true, Scrimgeour might just get out of the war alive and with a solid reputation as a hero, as the best Minister the Wizarding World has ever seen.

Yet his selfish ambition could only go so far. A part of him, a deceptively altruistic part, wanted to fall to his knees in joy and rapture. Here, in these rather pretty ornaments, was an end to the hell they had experienced for what seemed like an age. Could it be possible that this was the miracle of an invention that would cease the fire and begin their world anew?

Scrimgeour was a cynical man. He had no such faith in miracles, and no trust in mankind. So why had this been sent to him, and by someone who knew him – at least basically – and would know that the promise of the devices would be taken with a grain of salt?

The letter made him suspicious. The letter and the orbs made him involuntarily hopeful.

_Minister,_

_I'm sure you have heard the rumors of a weapon to fight the modified guns with__. This weapon I now place in your hands. _

Scrimgeour _had_heard the rumors. He'd scoffed at them, really, because what new, mythical, and buoyant story would the public come up with next? He recognized the talk as a way to inspire morale, yet Scrimgeour was under no delusions and believed nothing. Until now, of course.

_These devices will counter the magic in the guns. They should be shattered in the company of any modified weapons. They are keyed to the inherent signature of the weaponry and shall deactivate them quickly and efficiently. Those wielding the guns shall experience a violent backlash, but the explosion remains harmless to those who are not in possession of a magically enhanced firearm. The devices can withstand intense heat, so they may be shot through some kind of canon, or through a barrel. They do not break if dropped accidentally. It is intent that activates them. Moreover, the wielder's will alone shall set the disturbance off, as I have so charmed them. But I shan't go into the particulars of this invention. Use them well. _

He was glad, admittedly, that the letter wasn't long-winded, especially about the science (or was it magic?) of the devices. Scrimgeour was honest with himself, and he knew he would barely follow the explanation anyway. Yet, if the claim was true...and here, the letter examined Scrimgeour's lack of faith briefly.

_I am aware that you have no reason to believe that this will work. I know that you will immediately suspect that they are a ploy, perhaps to be activated in the midst of battle and accomplish the opposite of winning you a victory. It is clever of you to be skeptical, Minister, yet you are incorrect. As a show of faith, I will reveal that an attack on the Ministry is close at hand: Today, at three in the afternoon, in fact. I will also guarantee the honesty of the devices by performing a demonstration in your time of need. In the meantime, I would suggest distributing these devices to your defense at the Ministry. Once I have activated one in your presence, to have assured my good intentions, they will need to be used quickly._

Right they would, Scrimgeour agreed grimly. A battle at the Ministry was not something he looked forward to. If, and supposedly when, the Muggles somehow got into the building, there would be no first and only wave of men. If what the letter suggested was true, one device would incapacitate however many attackers were in the room. Leaving the next wave of men open to swiftly move in. They would need to drop a device for every group, and they would need to be prepared to do so.

He knew where they would come from. Scrimgeour was aware that some Wizards – though not many British, thankfully – had defected to the Muggle army based on some personal contention with Wizardkind. The Floo was keyed to certain government-approved fireplaces, yet Scrimgeour was no fool. He knew what corruption besought his Ministry. The battle would begin in the atrium, and there it would end.

Upon first reading the letter, Scrimgeour had ordered men at every Floo, had cut them off and put the Ministry on lock down. Even now, men were setting up in the atrium for battle, but without the devices. Scrimgeour was not ready yet to believe their power. He was not ready because of the last bit of the correspondence, the last part that had told Scrimgeour what the letter truly meant.

_If I can find the point of access, I shall send reinforcements your way. If not, I will still come bearing insurance that this battle will be won. And it will, Minister, this I promise. Too much of us have paid the price of one dream, and the war must end in order for the dream to end. I know you are not an easily swayed man, nor do you fall for sentiment, so I will give you no persuasion or convictions. All you need to know is that when they attack, they shall fail._

Yours truly.

And then no name. The penmanship was done with spellwork – a standard charm to mask both the signature of the person sending it and the familiarity of writing. But he wasn't peeved by the secrecy. Scrimgeour would know soon enough, provided the person showed. Who they were and what their aims were. He did not trust the letter or the Wizard or Witch (perhaps a Muggle?) who had written to him. The Minister would be a fool to do so, indeed.

For here, the person writing to him had told of an impending attack on the Ministry. Only a traitor, or a man heavily involved with the Muggles, would know what plans were underway. Of course, it could be assumption. Scrimgeour himself had known from the start of the war to expect multiple tries at invading the Ministry. And that threat had heightened since the events of the last week. The war was coming to a head, after all, and Scrimgeour vowed to be prepared.  
He hadn't expected a warning, though. Or a way to win this battle. Scrimgeour would indeed think of present circumstances and utilize the new weapons to win the fight. But he would not forget the contributor of his glory. The person who thought it prudent to apprise him without worry that Scrimgeour would suspect deception, or the status of their own involvement in this terrible, awful war.

While thinking upon the letter, Scrimgeour allowed the small hope inside of him to blossom. His Patronus delivered a message to Kingsley, who would arrive to pick up the devices shortly and set them up as was suggested. The Minister knew, with confidence, that he was making the right choice.

Because he knew what this letter was, bar its purpose of accomplishing something great for the Wizarding World. This was not only an incredibly helpful, likely magnanimous action of a good man – though even that was under debate. No, Scrimgeour had no such doubts on what this letter was.

This was a confession.

.o00o.

A few buildings short of the Ministry, Harry was crouched on the roof and watching the street below. It was a busy day in London, and he could see, down towards Trafalgar, the lonely red telephone box by King Charles Street. Against reason, the single booth looked as though it was perfectly normal there, not at all a way to get into a secret, magical ministry, He had reason to watch the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic, and it had everything to do with the short letter clutched in his cold hand.

It had arrived that morning, saying only "Attack on Ministry. Thousands. 3 pm."

The carefully slanted writing looked as though someone had likely practiced curving their letters very differently, so that Harry wouldn't know who they were. Unfortunately, this act alone gave away enough. The person writing him wasn't magical, and he or she knew that Harry would recognize their penmanship. This person did not want to be found out. It was someone who was intent on not confronting Harry, yet desperate enough to warn him. Harry knew an ally when he saw one, but he also knew who had written it, and they were an enemy.

The only question left was why.

He folded the letter up again and stared out at Whitehall, briefly running his eyes over Big Ben, and then downward to the walkers on the street. Harry glanced at his watch.

2:43

There was time yet, but he would keep vigilant. He had an idea, after all, of how this would transpire. His wand was clasped tightly in his hand, and he adjusted his crouch as a cold breeze drifted across his face. As he was preparing to wait once more, there was a disturbance.

An alarm suddenly sounded, and he peered at where the noise had come from. The fire siren had gone off at the Ministry of Defense. Seconds later, the Foreign Office alarms blared. His head snapped around when Scotland Yard's system echoed into the air.

Whitehall began to evacuate, and Harry stood up. Crowds, mostly government employees, pooled out of the buildings. They formed a pair of lines, walking towards Parliament Square calmly and somewhat quietly. The buses started and moved off down the street, other cars following behind them. In a line, just as the walkers had, they went two different ways and quickly cleared the area. It took a few minutes, though it seemed very fast for Harry, whose eyes remained fixed on the movement below.

He heard a low, almost inaudible rumble coming towards them. Harry caught sight of the military vehicles, carrying both weapons and men, arriving one by one through Trafalgar. The evacuees picked up the pace. He peered closely at the arriving army and could easily make out the crates of explosives, nearly three dozen of them, on the backs of the trucks.

Harry sighed. He'd been right.

He raised his wand up and sent a burst of fire into the sky. It formed the vague shape of a bird, perhaps a small sparrow, and flew off to where Tenebres and Mina's men were waiting. With one last look at the oncoming military, Harry Apparated to the telephone booth and slashed his wand in a downward arch. Scrimgeour would be waiting for him now, given the fact that he'd just deactivated the visitor's entrance Wards. Quite placidly, Harry stepped into the phone booth and dialed the numbers.

When he was lowered into the atrium, he was pleased to find Kingsley there with a team of his Aurors, their wands raised. Kingsley dropped his a bit when he saw it was Harry, but one of his more enthusiastic men shot a stunner at him. Harry easily deflected it and made a show of dusting off his coat.

"I hope you know that there's a veritable army outside, Kingsley," he said casually.

"Potter!" shouted a voice, and Kingsley stepped aside as Minister Scrimgeour came to the forefront. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "The Ministry's on lock down, boy—"

"I'm here to help you," Harry answered, glancing at the chaos around him. People were in various stages of unrest and preparation. The Aurors seemed to be charming the Floos, and Ministry personnel ran about with papers in their arms or floating behind them. A woman's voice rang out, explaining evacuation procedures and reminding them to remain calm. Harry almost snorted.

"They plan to blow Whitehall to hell," he revealed, looking at the Minister now. "I don't suppose the atrium is equipped to withstand a massive explosion?"

"I—well..."

"I'd thought not," Harry interrupted his stuttering. He turned to address Kingsley. "You'll need to move your men to the back of the hall, and remove that bloody statue for now."

Kingsley nodded swiftly and started barking orders; his men, having listened to Harry, were already in the process of moving back.

"That statue is a sacred artifact of the Ministry!" Scrimgeour protested hotly. "You can't _remove_it! There's a plethora of charms on it to prevent such—"

During Scrimgeour's rather useless yelling, Harry had flicked his wand quickly, channeling an immense amount of power through his body. With a rumbling, shaking groan, the massive golden statue came up from the ground and floated in place. Harry twitched his wand again, and it vanished.

"Where has it gone? What have you done with it?" Scrimgeour shouted.

"Why," Harry sniffed, looking lazily offended. "It's a sacred artifact of the Ministry, sir, I wouldn't destroy it. I think you'll find it safe in your office."

"How dare you!" the Minister cried, his face bright red as he stepped forward. "I'll have you know, Potter, that we're well-off without your bloody help!"

"You're dreadfully outnumbered," Harry informed him. He was thankful when the Minister, and quite a few others, listened closely. "There are thousands of men up top waiting to attack. I don't know if you heard me, but they're going to blow the roof. I can hold enough of the ceiling so that they'll only have once entrance. I'd suggest, however, that Ministry personnel not intending to fight leave the atrium."

Scrimgeour sputtered briefly until Kingsley came up to him, looking worried. "Minister," he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Potter's right. Perhaps you should go to the Wizengamot court rooms with the others…?"

"I'll fight, Kingsley! Handle your men!" Scrimgeour snapped, his gaze fierce. He turned back to Harry with a visible clench of his fists. "Do what you need to do, Potter."

Harry nodded to him, a small smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "I'll hold the ceiling, sir," he said respectfully, mockingly.

There seemed to be barely any time to waste. Kingsley and his Aurors managed to get everyone out of the atrium, and Harry stood where he was, very still and listening. He sensed that Scrimgeour was behind him, glaring, but ignored the Minister for now. The sparrow appeared before him again, and Mina's voice whispered, "Thirty seconds."

Harry looked at his watch.

2:57

Close enough, he supposed, shaking his head. Government people were never punctual and always early. He gave word to Kingsley to move the stragglers back, and, just as he turned around, he saw the Minister being forced to step away. Harry raised his wand and took a quick, deep breath.

2:58

The sparrow disappeared, and Harry reached out with every part of him and raised up an invisible mass of power. A wave of magic ran through him, cresting as a spume of his greatest strength collected at the vanguard. He felt his body tug with how much magic accumulated, rushing and running skyward. The sea of it arched and flattened, blanketing the roof just as the explosions began. Cracks, vine-like and slithering, appeared on the ceiling of the atrium. His magic repaired them as they were made, carving its own hole directly where the telephone booth had brought him down.

He felt sweat dribble down his face, slothful and tepid, as he held the roof from falling. The hole collapsed, crumbling the fallen debris into dust, and fire – hot, heavy flames – spewed out of the incision. It crawled toward him, and he could vaguely hear over his own thundering heart the shouting of Kingsley and the Minister. But when the blaze reached him, the hands of the fire caressed and did not burn. Underneath it, Harry stood untouched and smiled.

The backfire stilled. Across the atrium, the yelled orders of their attackers rang out. The first wave of men assembled to drop into the ministry. Harry let his magic dissipate, and turned to his audience.

"Minister," he said, dipping his head to the man. Scrimgeour gaped at him rather unnecessarily.

Twenty men lowered themselves into the hall, dropping like stones, their guns raised and ready to shoot. Harry, still staring at the Minister, raised up a familiar, glowing orb and showed it to him.

Scrimgeour's eyes widened, and the device dropped. Blue light enveloped the atrium, sprinting to every corner like racers, and the group of Muggles in front of them toppled into the walls, forced back by the detonation. The guns, his guns, fell to the floor, useless and forgotten. Harry waved the Elder Wand and stunned the group of men, listening as another wave prepared to fall. Harry turned and walked towards Kingsley, handing him a globe.

"Another," he commanded, looking at Scrimgeour. The man had closed his mouth, thankfully, but as the Aurors rushed forward to incapacitate the next attack, he stared at Harry with precision and clarity.

The second device dropped, and they were flooded with light again. A great roar shook the atrium, and Harry looked up briefly. "They may need help up top," he said to Scrimgeour, just loud enough to be heard. The man did not respond, and Harry nodded. "Give me the time to finish it first," he requested, turning away.

He was not surprised that Scrimgeour said nothing in return, and so he Apparated up top to where Mina and Ten were embroiled in battle. Nearly fifty dragons flew about Whitehall, looking as normal and scenic as the now destroyed telephone booth, and he moved toward his allies with swift steps. Tenebres stood, as regal as ever, next to a smiling Mina.

"They drop into the hole and disappear," Mina said to him when he approached.

"And are quickly disarmed and stunned," Harry finished, returning her smile.

She seemed to be trying hard not to laugh. "Is it wrong to find it so funny?" she asked, giving in to her amusement and chuckling attractively. "Look," she pointed at the men now hesitantly jumping into the hole. "There they go again! Ha!"

He grinned, if shortly. "How are you, Ten? Thanks for coming," he said, looking up at the dragon.

Ten snorted smoke, a deep purr shuttering in his chest, in what Harry knew to be dragon laughter. "I'm well, Dragon Speaker! Very well! Look how my army flies...have you ever seen anything so majestic?"

"Only when you're in the sky, Ten," Harry said fondly before glancing at Mina. "Shall we?" he said to them.

"Yes, let's!" Mina answered enthusiastically.

"I would not be opposed to joining the action!" Ten chortled with excitement.

They went into the midst of the battle, Ten taking to the sky as Mina and he ran towards the fighting. Harry began to cut through the lines, dropping devices when he saw that a gun had escaped. His wand moved with him, dancing in time, and soon, bodies piled and piled along the street of Whitehall.

The battle was long and hard. They were outnumbered, yet they were more powerful, more equipped. By the time the Muggles had called for a retreat, the casualties were too immense to possibly bear. As Harry continued to fight, he knew that this was the last stand the military would ever make. It was the victory Harry had promised the Minister. Yet some had not been quick enough to activate the counter, and ash rained down in droves. They too, suffered loss, but the battle was won, undoubtedly.

When they retreated, some running and some driving in what was left of their vehicles, Harry ordered his army forward to dispose of anything still living. The once pristine street was rubble and smoke, and he wove through the bodies and sloshed through ash. Harry spotted Kingsley as he came up top, rising out of the hole with bright black eyes.

"How's it going down there?" Harry asked once he'd made it to the Auror's side.

Kingsley grinned at him. "Everyone's fine, Harry," he said happily. "It looks like hell up here."

"It wasn't so bad," Harry told him. "Cleaning this buggery will be the difficult part," he added, waving at the mess.

Tenebres landed next to him, his wings twirling a wind through Harry's hair. "We have done well, Dragon Speaker!" Ten exclaimed. "My dragons fair!"

"They're all alright?"

"Very well, thank you!" Ten said.

Harry looked at Kingsley. "They have to go," he said, gesturing to the beasts now swarming above the battlefield. "I'm going with them. I trust you can handle all of this?"

Kingsley smiled. "No faith in the Minister's command?" he teased.

Harry scoffed. "Did he fight?"

The Auror raised a shoulder. "He didn't have to," he responded.

"Huh." Harry patted Ten on the flank and hopped up onto his back. "Just as well. I'd have to respect him if he had."

He inclined his head, first to Mina and then to Kingsley, and Tenebres took off into the air. The breeze tingled along his cheeks as they ascended, and Harry saw the destruction from a new height. It looked as though a war had begun and ended there, and he grinned without humor as Ten flew north. Behind them, the dragons streamed in a formation much like an arrow. The speed they journeyed at was swift, and Harry was glad it was still afternoon and not too cold. When the ground beneath him turned green, the dragons split off in different directions, roaring goodbyes to Ten.

They flew. It was a half an hour or so before they landed in Ten's field. Harry looked about and slid off of his back. It seemed like forever ago that he'd been there. With Ten and Griphook...and Bo. He did not bother to lose himself in the memories, there was no point in it, but, as he stood very still in the dying sunlight, a voice called to him to ensure he wouldn't fall into thoughts of Bo. Thankfully.

He turned to Griphook, who he felt he hadn't seen in an age. "You want to talk now?" Harry asked him plainly, turning to look at the goblin. Griphook stood a short distance away, but he made for them after Harry had spoken.

"Ah, my gold dealing friend!" Ten greeted him. "It was a wonderful day, just wonderful. A victory for man and dragon alike!"

Griphook smiled in that snarling way of his. "The Ministry held?" he inquired, though it sounded as though he already knew.

"It did," Harry answered instead of Ten. "I noticed you were absent from battle."

Griphook was not offended, despite Harry's slightly accusing tone. "I will go to negotiate with the Minister tomorrow, about the acquisition and command of Gringotts."

Harry frowned. "You'll go back?"

"It is our gold that created your Wizard bank," Griphook snapped scathingly. "You Wizards need us, but when the goblins return to you, it will not be in servitude or blackmail."

He blinked. "Of course," he agreed coolly. "I would have spoken with the Minister on this subject, had I not known it would be a great disservice to you if I were your representative."

Griphook sneered. "As if the thought had occurred to you," he said.

"It has," Harry nodded placidly. "I'm sure Ten will be happy to know I have a tractate written up explaining the value of dragons as a sentient species."

"That will do very little, and you know it," Griphook told him.

"It will do quite a lot, given you do not enslave any dragons at Gringotts," Harry snapped back.

Ten shuffled at their side, looking impatient. "Gold Dealer, he is right. We dragons are well on our way to independence. Our actions today are enough to ensure it. The tractate is perhaps unnecessary, even though I do appreciate it, Dragon Speaker."

Harry rested a hand on Ten's shoulder, patting the dragon's scales. "I find it is the least I can do," he said.

"You've done enough, I imagine," Griphook said, though not cruelly. "I did not come to fight with you, Mr. Potter."

"Then what did you come for?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Griphook glared at him before his expression was more withdrawn. He observed Harry from top to bottom, and, based on his frown, found something lacking. "I do believe you now have to confront someone," he said lowly.

Harry remained stoic. "I do," he agreed. "Frank is no doubt waiting. I look forward to returning to New York."

"You've left it long enough," Griphook said, though it did not sound admonishing.

He glowered, very briefly, before giving up on his anger. "As you have," he retorted, letting one last jibe soothe his pride. "Thank you, Ten," he said to the dragon. "I am forever in your debt."

"Oh, pish posh!" Ten laughed. "Go on, then, Dragon Speaker, there is still a full day in the Americas."

Harry gave him one last pat before turning on his heel, prepared to ignore the rather obnoxious goblin. He didn't understand what Griphook hoped to achieve by meeting with him. Harry was angry that they had fought, however briefly. A part of him had expected Griphook to call him back before he disappeared, and that part was not disappointed.

"Wizard," Griphook bade his attention.

Harry tilted his head to the side expectantly, but the goblin did not speak until Harry faced him. "My part is yet to come, indeed has already been, and it is not now. I have nothing more to say to you until I am told."

It was such an odd thing to say, especially in parting. For Griphook left, then, without another word. Harry gazed at where he'd been before raising a hand in goodbye to Tenebres. The goblin's words remained etched into his thoughts.

He had no time for cryptic messages. Harry disappeared from the field and landed in the familiar streets of New York. In stark contrast the fading daylight in England, Albany was bright and sunny. As if the day had started over. As if Harry had been blessed with just a little more time.


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

A/n: So, these chapters are the climax of the story (just telling you in case you didn't pass seventh grade English. Jkjkjk) There are three chapters left. Just three. There's one massive, overwhelming "theme of the story" plot twist to go, and a maybe an unpredictable ending. I'll do my epic thank you a/n in next weeks chapters. Enjoy it!

Also, thanks to those who reviewed. Seriously. Thank you. I love you guys.

A Response: Ana: Hey love! No worries about Draco understanding Harry. He does understand him, he only wanted him to react to something. Even though Harry's reaction was less than stellar. And the end is coming. LOL. Didn't you hear?

Warnings for this chapter: violence, language, CD, and a cliffhanger. Or not.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Twenty-Three

He moved swiftly through the winding roads. Though late for the city, it was still morning, and there were many people about and busy in New York. Harry promptly made it down the street and turned the block to Frank's house, as tall and imposingly luxurious as always. Faithfully, the ugly, white van was parked in front of the place, so familiar Harry had to laugh. Though he had to admit, it sounded fake and raw and not at all amused.

Monroe was outside the van this time, chattering away on her phone while simultaneously eating a rather large sandwich. Harry was amused to see it, for it was quite a pleasant change from the chaos and destruction he had seen all day. She didn't seem at all worried, or knowing, about what was happening elsewhere in the world. Harry thought that it just might be Monroe's personality that prevented her from becoming glum, rather than some iniquitous ignorance.

He walked forward as she took a particularly big bite of her food, chomping away and making an affirmative noise to the person on the other end of her phone. She saw him out of the corner of her eye and gaped. Harry was amused by the show of poor manners, and he smiled.

"Uh, I gotta go," she said into the receiver, swallowing her food. "No, no, I _really_have to go. I'm not trying to get rid of you. No! Okay, yeah, bye."

She flipped the phone closed and turned to him. "Sorry," she said, smiling sheepishly.

"Boyfriend?" Harry asked.

"Mother." She stared at him. "Haven't seen you for a while, Henry," she said, taking on a casual air.

"I've been around." He grinned. "Where're the rest of you lot?"

Monroe gestured to the van with her sandwich. "Donnelly's in there sulking, Marks has gone to the little boy's room," she said, the turkey and cheese now pointing towards Frank's house.

"Marks uses Frank's loo? You're joking."

"He takes a shit in it too. The place is radioactive when he's done. What are you doing here?" Donnelly asked, coming out of the van and brushing invisible crumbs off of his shirt.

Harry stared at the napkin still tucked into Donnelly's collar. "Does the government know they pay you to do absolutely nothing?"

Monroe had the decency to look a bit ashamed. "Well, there's not much we can do. Frank hasn't been in town. We don't think he'll be back, but Donnelly is in charge of his case, and it's still active and all—"

"Don't you ever shut up?" Donnelly interrupted her, glaring.

Harry turned to him, prepared to defend the woman from the agent's obviously sour mood, but he was surprised when Monroe spoke up. "No," she snapped. "I don't ever shut up. Anyway, we're still trying to find McAllister. We have a lead, if you want it. And Marks uses McAllister's...uh...facilities because the house has been repo'd, you know."

Harry raised his eyebrows – a move that Monroe likely thought was surprise at the repossession of Frank's house rather than interest aimed at her for standing up to Donnelly. He supposed her new fire was what had the man in such a terrible mood.

"Really?" he asked, more for her benefit than his. He saw Donnelly roll his eyes.

"Mmhmm," she confirmed, taking a bite out of her previously abandoned sandwich. "Belongs to the bureau now, a'course. You can go in if you want," Monroe told him with her mouth full.

Harry stared at her. "Thank you for your permission." He turned back to Donnelly. "I wouldn't worry about finding Frank. I can get him. What I need is that portrait."

Donnelly glowered. "Fine, whatever," he said, moving back into the van. He brought out Dumbledore's portrait, wrapped haphazardly in black cloth. It was shoved into Harry's waiting arms with little adieu.

"What do you need it for?" Monroe asked curiously, finishing off her early lunch.

He didn't see the harm in telling her. "I need to talk to Dumbledore. A little clarification, maybe. Mostly, I need his advice."

"Thought you didn't like the guy?" Donnelly asked, stepping down to sit on the bumper.

Harry lifted a shoulder. "I don't." Very suddenly, he felt in need of a cigarette, and he leaned the portrait up against the van and shuffled one out. As he lit it, he said, "But he was fucked up when he was alive, and now he's worse when he was dead. He was murdered already. Not much I can do about not liking him."

Monroe gave him a bemused look. "So that's how you sort out your problems with people?" she commented rather slyly, crossing her arms and leaning forward. "Hmm…"

"You knew that already, Monroe—" he began, but Donnelly cut him off.

"Considering we're federal agents," he said to Monroe scathingly, "it would behoove you not to kill the people you have a problem with."

"Self-preservation, Donnelly?" she said hotly, glancing at him over her shoulder. "And don't say behoove, it makes you sound stupid."

"I'll dumb down my vocabulary for you, Monroe. Sorry, I forgot you're dumber—"

"Whoa, okay," Harry tried to cut him off.

"—than a box of rocks."

Monroe turned so red Harry wouldn't have been surprised if she exploded. He went forward to pick up the portrait, and the movement startled them out of their little fight. "I realize," Harry said in the stewing silence, "that you two have fucked. Perhaps recently. But, honest-to-god, I don't give a shit. I came here for the portrait, and I thought that you'd want to know that the war is ending. Sorry for the misconception."

"Wait, what?"

Donnelly stood up. "What are you talking about, Brooks?" he demanded, scowling down at Harry.

Harry took a drag and tugged at his lip, nonplussed. "I mean, there was a victory for the Wizards an hour or so ago. Enough of a victory to shut down the guns. They've got a device now… deactivates them and everything. All that's left is Frank and his rebels, and then we can work on a treaty."

Speechless, Donnelly and Monroe simply stood and stared at Harry. He shrugged lightly at their silence and threw his cigarette away. "It's nowhere near a perfect ending. There's still fighting and civil war in China, for instance. But the device is now mass-produced, and it's purely defensive, so there's really no war anymore. No guns."

"I—" Monroe stuttered. "I'm sorry, are we supposed to be upset? I mean, I'm sorry because they're your inventions and all, but, an end to the war, well, I don't know—"

"Can it, Monroe," Donnelly snapped, his eyes on Harry. "So we lost?"

Harry frowned. "Of course not," he said. "We've come to an impasse. An impasse with no victor, apparently. Neither side can destroy the other. It's over. We've no choice but to assimilate."

He looked at Monroe then. "And no, I'm not upset that my guns have been destroyed. I invented the device to counter them, after all," he informed her.

"You did?" Monroe said.

At the same time, Donnelly blurted, "Why the hell did you do that!"

Harry watched them both as they waited for his response. "I did it because my aim was never to destroy the world to the point of no recovery. I would be a fool to do so. The guns were catalysts of war. The devices are peace-makers. End of story."

"You're really freaking smart," Monroe said before she could contain herself. She went red and swung around to glare at an amused Donnelly. "Don't say anything!" she snapped.

Harry smiled, halfheartedly. "Why, thank you, Agent Monroe."

"What do your loyal followers think about this?" Donnelly asked, not at all masking his laughter at Monroe. "McKay and Brooks all right with this? They don't think you're a traitor to your side?"

"I never had a side," Harry told him blankly. "And John and Denny are dead."

The Agents had varying reactions. Donnelly's eyes widened and he took a hasty step away from Harry. Monroe put a hand over her mouth and moved forward. Harry watched them closely.

"Shit, are you joking?" Donnelly breathed.

Harry adopted a look of honest confusion. "Why would I joke about that?"

"Are you…gosh," Monroe puffed out, gazing at Harry. "Are you all right? I mean...wow. I..."

"I thought you two would be happy," he said, rather slowly. "They were criminals, after all. The only reason I told you was because I thought you wouldn't care."

Donnelly stared at him warily. "Like you don't?" he retorted, before his next words carried a bit more anger. "That's pretty cold hearted, Brooks. Your dad's dead, and you think we'd be happy? What the fuck do you take us for? I never liked McKay or Brooks, but I'd rather cuff them than snuff them!"

Monroe reached out to calm her partner, putting a hand on his arm. But Harry merely smiled.

"I like that, cuff them, snuff them. Cute cop lingo, I bet," he said idly. There was silence as Harry gazed off, but he turned back to them and said, "I was mistaken, sorry. And I'm not cold hearted. I'm not really thinking about it at all. Or about anything, really," he assured them airily.

Monroe took another step forward. "You're not—" She cleared her throat. "You're not going to hurt yourself, are you?"

"Fuck that!" Donnelly shouted. "I want to know if he's going to go on a fucking rampage!"

Harry was laughing at them, loudly but joyously. "I'm going to end the war," he said, still chortling. "I'm not crazy, Donnelly."

"I beg to differ!" Donnelly scoffed. When Monroe smacked him (surprisingly hard), he turned to her and hissed, "What?"

"You're being insensitive!"

Harry sighed before they could start in on each other again and lifted the portrait a bit higher. "I'm off, mates. It's been a pleasure," he said, walking off towards the house.

"What do you mean? You're not actually going to kill yourself? Henry...!"

He turned back to Monroe. "I won't," he said, smiling. "You can't kill the dead, eh?"

Donnelly's face went pale, and his eyes grew wide. "Your dad said that once, but he said he'd find a way."

This put Monroe into a veritable fit, and she repeatedly smacked Donnelly to shut him up.

"Denny always had the best threats," Harry said nostalgically, grinning. But the expression did not last – it could not last – and it slid off of Harry's face as fast it had come. Overwhelming, terrible, awful, ugly pain clenched his insides and melted them. For a moment, he was awake and aware. And then he shuddered, and the agony and anguish were gone, replaced by the denial and stoicism he had perfected since the first day he'd experienced loss.

Since before he could remember. He vowed to not remember. Not now.

"Cheers," he said, coming back to himself, trying a smile. He noticed, without caring, that Donnelly and Monroe seemed frightened of him. Or for him, possibly. But that didn't matter.

He had a portrait to talk to.

.o00o.

He passed Marks on the way up the stairs. Harry smiled at him and simply said, "Be seeing you," before he resumed his trek to Frank's office. He pretended not to see the man's surprised, somewhat disappointed look.

The manor was largely untouched, Harry found. Besides a few overturned shelves and Marks's obviously liberal use of the bathroom, it was as if Frank himself were still living there. Harry ran a hand across the hutch right before his office and pulled his dusty fingers away. Perhaps not completely the same. There were small, prosaic instances of desertion betraying Frank's absence. Harry dwelled on them as he opened Frank's door, pleased to find this place lost in the familiar zeitgeist, or a comforting time when Harry and Frank were on good terms, at least.

He sighed and put the portrait down, releasing his hands to remove his coat. All but for the stuffiness and lingering dust, the office was perfect. Harry took up the portrait and walked over to the wall, balancing it on the white patch that betrayed where it had once hung. It swung to the left and Harry straightened it. Dumbledore was not in his chair, but he would be soon.

Harry sat on the edge of Frank's desk and lit a cigarette, crossing his arms and waiting.

Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long; Dumbledore's head popped out of the side of the frame. He gazed at Harry uncertainly.

"Hello, Harry," he hedged, moving further into his portrait.

Harry scratched his nose. "Do you think I'm angry with you?" he asked, quite curious.

Dumbledore trudged to his chair and sat, as if reassured by Harry's question. "I can imagine why you would be," the old headmaster said. "You were impatient with me the last time we spoke."

He thought about this briefly. He supposed he was impatient with Dumbledore, but not only during the incident he had just spoken of. Harry had always been impatient with the man. Yet, at present, he didn't feel as though this conversation would be a waste of his time. Harry took a drag and gathered that he didn't feel much of anything.

"I'm not angry at you," Harry told him, rather quietly. In fact, Harry wondered if it had ever really been Dumbledore he was furious with. Perhaps, all of this time, it was just himself he found fault with.

"I don't believe you've ever been truly angry with me," Dumbledore said, echoing his thoughts. "Largely, Harry, you've been punishing yourself for most of your life."

Harry laughed dryly, blowing smoke out of his mouth with loud force. "You really do know everything, don't you, old man?" he muttered. "When you conspired with Frank to attack Hogwarts, you wanted me out in the open, yeah? You wanted me to confess what I had done."

Dumbledore seemed to ponder his words. His eyes were as sad as they were determined. "It would have ended the war," he commented.

"It will end the war," Harry corrected. "You knew all along that that was what it would take. Maybe if you were more forthcoming, I would have listened to you, before it got...bad."

"And did it get bad?" Dumbledore inquired, the concern on his face contrary to his otherwise cool tone.

He took another deep drag of his smoke and then put it out. It had burned to the filter, anyway. "Yes," he answered ambiguously. "I've destroyed the guns, you know. Though I suppose Frank has told you that, if he has another portrait, as I suspect he does."

"I have not been in contact with Frank McAllister since the day you found me," Dumbledore revealed. "Mr. McAllister is not what you think he is, Harry."

Harry twitched his head to the side. "No, I don't suppose he is," he agreed.

"You have destroyed your guns?"

"My guns, my guns," Harry repeated, licking his lips and looking away. "I guess they are mine. And yes, I have." He turned back to Dumbledore. "They needed to be destroyed. Just as you were correct in assuming I needed to be found out."

Dumbledore frowned with what seemed to be worry. "For the good of the world, my boy, and your well-being. It is cathartic to admit wrongs, but also to be known for rights. I have heard Hogwarts deliberate on the end of the war. Africa has been most productive in assimilating the two worlds—"

"I don't think it matters much anymore," Harry cut him off, reaching to light another cigarette. "I find, well..." He lifted a shoulder. "I don't much care, sir."

"Harry...this was your dream," Dumbledore asserted, looking heartbroken. "What has happened to make you this way?"

His body felt numb, even as the rush of smoke traveled through him. Even as a cold sweat made him wonder whether it was freezing or very hot in the room. "Nothing's happened but what's supposed to," he answered quietly. "I think, from the beginning, it was going to end this way, but I didn't realize it. You did. How did you know?"

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and gazed at him. His old hands wrapped around the armrests, as if he were bracing himself for Harry's fury. But Harry didn't feel much like getting angry. "War is predictable," Dumbledore finally said, weighing his words. "Terrible things happen in war, yet, in the aftermath, there are those who are humbled. Harry, you needed to be humbled, but I did not ever wish for you to be broken."

Harry swallowed. "I'm not broken enough that I won't finish it," he ensured.

"Yes, but—" Dumbledore paused and appeared to be overwrought. "Do you understand what you are, my boy?"

The pensive, narrow-eyed look on Dumbledore made Harry fidgety. He waited for the man to continue.

"You're a visionary," he said, his expression showing that he was thinking hard on his own words. "A revolutionary. Who can say that they are that, Harry? Who can boast the same? You set out to change the world, and you have done so. In such a way...well, in such a way that it is almost impossible to condemn you completely. You have kept your soul, despite the terrible things you have done. You love, even still, when broken. I know no man who has done the same, and I will never know any to follow you."

"You once said my soul was forfeit," Harry told him calmly. "That I had ruined myself and others."

"I had not thought it was possible for you to succeed!" Dumbledore pled with him. "My horror did not inspire logic, I'm afraid."

"I haven't succeeded," Harry said, throwing away another cigarette. "I haven't done anything I can be proud of. I've lost everything, Dumbledore, and nothing is worth that."

Dumbledore appeared alarmed. "You don't truly believe what you say, Harry."

"Maybe not," Harry said, standing. "I don't know what I believe anymore."

They were silent for a while, and though Dumbledore seemed uncomfortable, wanting to say something, Harry was enjoying the peace. What he needed was to go somewhere and think, actually think. Though his mind and heart revolted at pondering events too deeply.

He felt as though he were floating, unable to truly feel, yet aware of everything around him. Always before, he was capable of horrible things, but he was also aware, emotionally, of his actions. Now it seemed as though there was no sentiment but a small echo that was left behind. A notch in his mind that was proof that feeling had existed before.

In this sort of state, Harry did not wish to waffle over hows and whys with Dumbledore. He was thankful that the man seemed aware of his need for blunt honesty. He realized Dumbledore was still there, then, watching him.

"I need to talk to Frank, but I don't quite know what to say yet," he confessed.

"Don't be too harsh with him," Dumbledore advised.

Harry nodded. "I need to—I'll be back in a bit," he murmured, suddenly on his feet and making for the door.

Dumbledore said nothing as Harry left.

.o00o.

Alice's Restaurant perhaps wasn't the best place to go to think, but Harry found there were more good memories associated with this place than bad. He sat in the same booth, and maybe the same waitress took his order. He planned on staying for a while, so he asked for a simple cup of coffee so as not to be rude or kicked out for loitering. Around him, old couples and young people, a few business men, even, sat in various stages of eating and socializing. Harry watched them until the waitress came back with his coffee, and then he set about drinking it.

There was a radio playing, and the chattering of the people segued into the low music nicely. Laughter could be heard in small spurts around him, and a raised television was relaying the news in a monotone, somewhat comforting drone. He could tell that many of the diner's patrons were talking about today's events. The reporter on the screen was broadcasting from Trafalgar. Despite the obvious loss the Muggle world had suffered, there was a sense of anticipation in the air.

Harry looked away from them into his coffee cup. There was a silence in his own mind that allowed him to block out the diner's atmosphere. The same floating feeling he had thought upon in Frank's office was still upon him, loyal in that it would not be moved. Harry frowned a bit and took a sip of his coffee. It tasted like easy conversation, like Dickens, like New York. He inhaled a bit of its scent, and it smelled as it had tasted on his tongue.

He smiled a bit, amused at how a cup of coffee could inspire such memories. The humor did not last, however, because Harry was here to think on how to handle Frank. And as if the coffee were an accomplice, when he next took a swallow, it reminded him only of Frank McAllister.  
Harry shoved the mug away.

He knew, at least a bit, of how he would handle Frank. His hand reached into his pocket without his conscious consent, and he brought out the note that had been sent to him that morning. It was crinkled, so he flatted it on the table.

Such a telling little note. When he'd first received it, he was giddy with excitement. Well, as giddy as he had ever been. But Harry had certainly been pleased. A warning, especially a specific one, was better than assumption any day. He'd wasted no time in contacting Mina, and Ten, and, with only a few minor adjustments, he had sent off his already-prepared letter to the Minister. Everything had happened very fast, with no heavy thought or preparation from Harry. Most of his planning and most of his reactions took little contemplation. Harry had always been a purveyor of rationality in the most anarchic times. Yes, he did very well thinking on his feet.

But when he realized that a confrontation with Frank was close at hand, and what the letter meant, his planned wrath with his old friend and boss had been shot to hell. There was no doubt Harry could not be harsh with him, if what he assumed was true. His fury was better used on someone else.

Perhaps himself? Harry shook his head and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. Frank was in no way exempt from penance, and neither was Harry. But thinking about Denny (and god, it even hurt to think his name or see his face in his mind's eye. It hurt so badly Harry felt like a collapsing, burning, melting tower) would do little for him now. Neither would planning out his punishment.

There was still so much to do, starting with summoning Frank. Harry tried to dredge up some kind of emotion to feel about the man, but there was nothing there. Just...resignation. He had lost everything. He was back to where he had started.

The streets seldom made one a better man. Harry had thought, long ago, that he was the exception. That his own sense of morality and ambition set him a part from those abandoned, those wasted – the pariahs of life he felt no kinship for. And here he was, just as lost and empty-handed as he had been when a child. They had left him. They all had.

There was no denying it, and there was no reconciling with it. Harry felt well and truly alone for the first time since that day. That day when he'd woken in the gutter and had known, with despair and confidence, that his family had left him to die. And now _they_ had done the same, only he was doomed to face his wrongs and give over his perfected, cool control. Even now, his control would not let him think about those lost. Like palisades blocking the sea from land. Like palisades that offered safety and a chance, if he so wanted, to jump. But a niggle of a thought came to him then, and he started.

He had not lost all of it, after all.

The memory of Arthur Weasley, his admitted love for Harry – despite everything, he had not lost that. Mrs. Weasley, her eyes understanding, and Ron...Ron who cared but only showed it when Harry needed him to. His first family had remained steadfast. And they knew what Harry had done, and it didn't seem to matter much next to the fact that they loved him.

How could he have forgotten? Harry put his head into his hands and scrubbed at his face again. He was so very tired, yet there was more to do and...

The fire. The fire had not left him. It had changed course, but it was still burning. Harry had been given a task. A task to reshape the world despite all costs. This horrible loss was the price, but the fire remained still. His determination, to go forward and finish the war, was immortal, it seemed. Yet how could it not be? Harry's faith in the task had never wavered. No matter what he said to dead, old men and what he felt he deserved for his crimes.

Whatever prophet, or God, or being had given him this, Harry knew he could not afford to waste it. The dream had set him apart from his fellows, and it continued to do so. He held fast to it like a life line. God, how could he have been so ungrateful? Why had no one he had told reminded him? Admittedly, they were very few, only Mina and Draco...

Draco.

Guilt tore through him, stronger than anything he had felt in the last week. They were not speaking with one another, and Harry, who had always thought the act childish, never felt more terrible that they were separated. He vaguely remembered a brawl, some vicious words, and, perhaps, an apology. But that apology wasn't enough. Harry had hurt him. Draco had hurt him. They were at odds.

Though maybe it was better that way. If Draco loved him half as much as he said he did, it would still be hard for him to see Harry give in. Harry himself had to admit he would be destroyed, seeing Draco's agony. Absolutely destroyed.

In the past few days that they had not talked, Harry came to the conclusion that there was no more stability in himself because of it. This floating...this waiting for the inevitable without Draco's constant presence, his pillar-like solemnity, had caused his state of insouciance. And he had not remedied the divide as he should have.

Ungrateful, indeed. Harry was stupendously ungrateful. He loved Draco, and he would lose him, this much was true. Better now than later, yes?

But reasoning with this dispossession was harder than Harry had thought. His heart was clenching, as if stuck in a vice, and his hands shook as he ran them through his hair. This pain was what he deserved, though he did not wish it on Draco.

It had to be done, though. Frank had to be castigated, and the world needed someone to blame before the fighting could quiet. There seemed to be no going back, and Harry wasn't sure he would return to fix things, even if he could. Dumbledore was right. The path he had chosen was both awful for others and for himself, but he had changed the world. Nothing could be hidden any longer. There would only be acceptance.

And Harry had always wanted acceptance.

He had followed his dream and had done right. Whatever loss, and god, _what a fucking loss!_He knew what remained. The same flame that had lead him to the present. The task that had kept him from dying. From falling into despair and hopeless nothingness. Where all else failed to humble him, the task succeeded.

It had saved him before, and it saved him now. He had an old friend to see to, and then the world he knew, the world he controlled, would surrender to peace.

.o00o.

Without hesitating, he tipped back his head and swallowed the potion. Harry waited a total of five minutes, Dumbledore's watchful gaze on him, until there was the sound of feet upon the stairs. They were rushed, as if the person were running, no doubt tortured by the compulsion telling them to _go, go, go_. Harry glanced at the vial as he leaned against the desk. Snape really was a goddamn genius.

Frank burst through the door, out of breath and sweaty. His wide, panicked eyes falling on Harry before, surprisingly, they calmed. Harry watched his reaction closely, taking a slow pull from his smoke and nodding toward the chair in front of him.

"Hello, Frankie, have a seat," he said.

Frank swallowed audibly. "Henry—" he started, but something in Harry's expression halted him. He sat.

Harry observed his pallid face before throwing the crumpled letter into Frank's lap. "Explain why you sent me a warning," he commanded softly. "There's something I'm missing here, and I want to know what it is."

"Henry," Frank said, grabbing up the letter and clenching it in one fist. "Hen, I—"

"Don't call me that, please," Harry interrupted him, rubbing at his brow.

"I, well, what should I call you?" Frank asked in confusion. Harry stared at him, his own bemusement gradually transforming into wisdom.

"Whatever you want," he responded tightly. "I don't care. But don't call me by the name my father bestowed upon me. My father whom you killed."

He had been testing the waters, and the reaction Frank gave answered much about his experiment. Those deep blue eyes widened, and a brief look of anguish shadowed Frank's eyes and mouth. "Denny—"

"Is dead. John with him," Harry informed him coldly. "No, I know you weren't aware," he cut Frank's next words off. "What I want to know now, besides my first query, is who did it and how were you not involved?"

Frank's jaw twitched. Nervously, he gazed up at Harry and exhaled. "I...Jesus—" he paused and briefly closed his eyes. "John—"

"You can mourn later," Harry told him. "Explain, Frankie."

"All right, all right," Frank said, a little hysterically. "It started when we had that disagreement, about the weapons, you remember."

Harry dipped his head. "I remember."

"Right." Frank ran his teeth down his upper lip. "It was my fault. Rahul came to me. Offered a deal. Said he'd win us the war. He promised—" He cleared his throat painfully. "He promised to leave us out of it. You, Denny, John—"

"And you _believed_him?" Harry asked, a sliver of anger lacing his tone. "You fucking believed him, Frankie?"

"He said he could subdue you!" Frank cried, his hands shaking. "He said you weren't into the war enough to go against him!"

"You know me better than that!" Harry yelled. "Fu—"

A cough interrupted him, and Harry swung his head around to stare at Dumbledore. The headmaster looked at Harry pointedly.

"Yeah," Harry said, taking a deep breath. "All right, go on," he motioned to Frank.

Frank frowned. "He promised, and I believed him. I know I was wrong. Fuck, I think I was just—" he stopped. "I think I just thought I could handle the war better than you. I was wrong, Hen. I'm sorry."

When Harry did not respond to his apology, and, in fact, looked at him coldly as he scraped out his cigarette, Frank went on. "Shortly after that I got a portrait in the mail." He gestured to Dumbledore. "He gave me the plans to attack the Magical school. He said not to hurt anybody, but to just take over. Said it would end the war."

"And expose me," Harry said.

"I thought you were out of the game," Frank told him. "Rahul told me you'd withdrawn."

"Then why were you hiding from me?"

Frank shook his head. "I was fucking hiding from everyone!" he said defensively. "I'm a wanted man, and the cops here are hell-bent on bringing me in! Rahul gave me sanctuary, said I would be back when things died down!"

"He lied," Harry said bluntly. "Surely you know he would have killed you once it was over. He set you up, Frankie; all this time, I thought it was you behind it. What I don't quite get is Damien Evenward—"

"Evenward?" Frank gaped. "But he's dead…"

"He's dead _now_," Harry corrected, switching the weight off of his bad leg. "The kid wanted revenge, so he caught me and tortured the fuck out of me. He told me that you wanted Denny dead, because he'd had a hand in your wife's death—"

"Denny saved me!" Frank bellowed. "He saved my fucking life! Denny was my friend—"

"I was your friend!"

"You were doing everything wrong!" he burst out, trembling madly. "I thought you would lose and get us all killed! And Denny...Denny would follow you no matter what! And you had John. I thought you were going to get them killed, Henry!"

Harry stared at him. "You were right about that, at least," Harry said softly. "You know, I'd never met a man like Damien Evenward. I almost hate myself for believing his fiction fact. You harbored no ill will towards Denny?"

Frank sobbed out a "no, god, never!"

Which was an answer enough for Harry. "Just clarifying." Harry shrugged. "What I want to know is how you remained so goddamn ignorant of what was going on?"

Frank shuddered. "The sanctuary Rahul promised became a prison. I couldn't go anywhere, contact anyone." He blinked quickly. "But he told me everything he was doing. Him and Coleman—"

"Agent Coleman?"

"The same," Frank affirmed. "The Hit Wizards are with Rahul, or what's left of them. Coleman told me Denny and John were missing. Then, this morning, Rahul comes in and starts going on about attacking your Ministry. He told me what the plan was. Then I figured I'd use Coleman's owl. Guess they assumed I'd never contact anyone by messenger bird. Practically left the owl there for me. But I never let on that I disagreed with Rahul—"

Harry tilted his head. "And did you disagree with him?" he questioned.

"Fuck yes, I did!" Frank said forcefully. "He told me three weeks ago that you'd challenged him! Said he would kill you no matter what."

"I did challenge him," Harry admitted. "I created a device that deactivates the guns."

"I heard," Frank said. "It's fucking genius, but it pissed Rahul off. It's not about winning for him anymore; it's about power, and his own version of morals. He's crazy, Hen, he's fucking nuts. You understand that?"

He observed Frank evenly. The man was awfully out of sorts, consumed with grief and guilt after hearing the knowledge of his friends' deaths. It was easy to interrogate this man, now that he was so broken. Harry wasn't sure how to feel about Frank, or whether or not he felt anything. Frank stared at him imploringly, begging him for mercy. For forgiveness.

Harry could give him nothing. "You made the wrong choice," Harry said coolly.

Frank nodded in quick, short jabs. "I know, I know," he breathed. "But I wanted…fuck if I know what I wanted. You kept telling me to be my own man, and I guess, I thought, I knew better—"

Harry gestured to Dumbledore. "So did he," he mentioned idly.

"I'm sorry, Hen. I'm so fucking sorry," Frank said. "But you've got to know...Rahul will want to hurt you now. He's only after you. The war is lost to him. You need to be careful—"

"Now that I know just what Arif Rahul is capable of," Harry talked over him. "I can meet his threat. You know me well enough, Frankie. He can't do anything to me that I do not consent to."

Frank looked down at his lap, his shoulders hunched. He appeared both child-like and old. Harry realized that he was witness to a defeated soul – a husk of a person, formerly strong and able. Harry imagined that if he had the courage to look at himself in the mirror, he would see a reflection of the pathetic person before him. He was just as broken. That did not mean he was merciful.

As if sensing his purpose, Dumbledore suddenly said, "Harry—"

"_You stay the fuck out of this_!" Harry hissed at him. "You've done enough."

Dumbledore's mouth became a tight, straight line, and he left his portrait. Harry turned back to Frank.

"All this time, I hated you so passionately, Frankie," Harry said to him, standing up straight.

Frank looked at him. He swallowed before he said, "Thank you for believing me."

Harry's brow knitted. "It matters very little if I believe you or not," he said. The gun in his pocket slid out, and Harry grasped it with his left hand. "Damien cut off my trigger finger," Harry informed him, lifting his right hand and showing the finger in question to Frank. "Made sure I couldn't shoot with it ever again. It hurt."

Fear made sweat bead on Frank's forehead. "I know I deserve it," he said, his voice wobbling.

Harry glanced at him. "I've been practicing," he continued, this time showing Frank his left hand, where he held the gun loosely. "My aim's off. From long distances, anyway. It took me a while to get the hang of it."

He lined the barrel up to Frank's head. "It'll do," he commented. The weight of the gun still felt wrong in his left hand, but Harry ignored it. It would never be the same, he knew. It was best to simply get over it.

"Henry, please…"

Harry shook his head, exasperated."Do you even want to live anymore?" he asked, but then he laughed dryly. "No, I don't think you do. You and I have a lot in common, Frank McAllister. We both don't really mind a gun to our head."

In agreement, Frank took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Harry pulled the trigger, and though it felt awkward and inelegant, the bullet tore through Frank's head in a clean, cool execution. Blood and brain were splattered across the chair and floor, but Harry didn't really notice. The way Frank was slumped over, it almost seemed as though he were asleep. Harry hoped that was what death was like.

He moved backward until his body hit the desk, and he sat upon it and slid. Harry laid down and stared up at the ceiling, lighting a smoke and not looking at Frank's body. There was no need; the scene was still fresh in his mind, after all.

Time passed. Harry finished one smoke after the other, staring, sightlessly, at the roof. He must have slept because he dreamed. There were moving things, colors and voices, in his slumber. None of them understandable or in any reasonable order.

He woke to the call of his name.

"Harry. Harry," they said.

His eyes snapped open. He was still on Frank's desk, and there was a chill in the air. Harry looked out the window. It was dark. Dark enough to be close to dawn. He had slept for a long, long time. Harry vaguely realized that, despite his slumber, he still felt tired.

"Harry," Dumbledore was saying. Harry moved his head lazily to look at the old man.

Dumbledore was purposely staring only at him, and not the dead body of Frank McAllister, cold and unmoving, in the room. "Hogwarts is under attack."

He turned his head away. When he spoke, his throat was croaky and raw. "Yeah," he sighed. "I know."

Harry jolted imperceptibly as the Wards on his rooms fell. "The students?" he asked, sitting up slowly.

"Minerva is taking care of it," Dumbledore said, his eyes narrowed with worry. "It's not a real attack, not really. Rahul is here, Harry. He wants—"

"I know what he wants," Harry murmured, not meeting the Headmaster's gaze. "I know."

He looked at Frank's corpse and then got off the desk. "What will you do?" Dumbledore asked, sounding nervous.

Harry didn't answer as he put his gun back in his pocket. Dumbledore fidgeted in his portrait.

"Remember who you are, Harry," the old man said as Harry turned to leave.

He stopped, his hand on the door knob. "I know," Harry repeated. _I remember_.

With a resignation he had never felt before – a cold, unshakable submission – Harry left Frank's frozen body and the watchful eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

He did not look back.


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

Panic Switch

Chapter Twenty-Four

The room was empty. A tiny, almost unnoticeable wind journeyed from the open window, cold enough to chill him, but pleasant all the same. Harry took off his coat, undoing each button with meticulous precision. As it came off, his back arched and a shock traveled down his spine. He changed his shirt and smoothed back his hair with one hand.

In his pocket, he stuck his wand. Pausing briefly to pick up a few glass orbs from the table, he put his coat back on and slid them inside the breast pocket. Hands dry, he rubbed them together to get the static out of his fingers. They twitched with both anticipation and worry.

Harry looked around his room. As blank as his mind was, there were memories there, with Draco, with himself, with his family and his friends. He had emptied out the contents of his pockets, and here, now, everything he owned – on his body and in this room – was in front of him. Every object had a memory.

Harry glanced down at the gun in his hand. He had made to carry it with him, as he always did. Yet now, he set it upon the table with his remaining possessions.

_"There's been talk lately," Denny suddenly said, crossing his arms over his chest and laying down on the opposite sofa. "There's been talk that you know how to start a war, but you don't know what you're fighting for."_

Henry blinked. He crossed his legs and lit a smoke, observing his father – who had his eyes closed and seemed to be on the brink of dozing – silently. When the quiet lasted too long, Denny popped one eye open to stare at him. "Who said this to you?" Henry asked softly.

"Everyone," he responded, yawning. "Frank, John, Rashidi..." Denny shrugged a bit. "They know your game, but not your motive."  
  
_Henry licked his lips, finishing off his glass before setting it down. "Have you ever read the poem _Liberty_?" he queried, knowing the answer but asking anyway._

"Who's it by?" Denny grunted.

"Edward Thomas," he said. "It's a wonderful poem. I read it once on a slip of newspaper. It was in London, months before we'd met. On the anniversary of the day Thomas died, they printed that poem for him. He was a war hero, you know."

Denny made a sound in the back of his throat to show that he was listening.  
  
_"Anyway, it was the first time I'd ever read any sort of poetry before. It was the first poem I'd ever read. Thomas spoke of freedom, but not about fighting for it. He wondered if being free was natural, if it was possible. I thought, then, given my circumstances, that I had the ultimate freedom. Thomas was talking about me. About how I lived nowhere and did nothing, but I was 'so rich to be so poor.' And then I read the last verse."_

He paused there, and Denny cracked open his eyes again and stared at him.

"'I should be rich; or if I had the power, to wipe out every one and not again,'" he recited. "'Regret, I should be rich to be so poor. And yet I still am half in love with pain, with what is imperfect, with both tears and mirth, with things that have an end, with life and earth, and this moon that leaves me dark within the door.'"

Denny remained silent.

"He wasn't talking about me at all," Henry explained, clearing his throat. "I understand what he meant now."

"And what did he mean?" Denny whispered.

Henry took a breath and laughed lightly, pulling on the end of his smoke. "He meant what I mean for this war of mine, and that should be reason enough for everyone," he said. 

_Groaning, his father turned about on the sofa and covered his eyes with his hands. "Ah, fuck you," he cursed Henry, who laughed. "If you won't tell me, lad, I don't need to know."_

"You'll understand when you're older, Den," he teased.

Denny had likely understood, in the end. Just as Harry's understanding of the words had now changed. The memory was not an awful one, though it made him feel terrible. He turned his eyes away from the gun and, without looking, shoved it to the far side of the desk. His hand reached out to clasp an empty potion's vial.

_"I cannot help you with anything now, Potter," Snape said, tossing his head in Harry's direction._

The movement reminded Harry of a dog on a leash, its futile attempt to disencumber itself. It made him sad, for some indiscernible reason.

"It is high time you grew up. Or perhaps you'd rather immortalize yourself as a child with too much conceit and too little sense? Whatever you do, I won't be a part of it any longer," he said. "And don't push me to react, boy," he threw in after a second, right before Harry could speak. "There's no love lost between us."

Harry clenched his teeth. "That a threat, Snape?" he spat.

Professor Snape looked at him, then, in a way that said he was extremely unimpressed and not at all willing to back down from his audaciously spoken opinion. He looked at Harry as if every bad attribute he'd observed was now proven, and that no help, not even from those who loved him, would, should he need it, be available. It was an awful expression, to be sure, one full of the utmost scorn. Harry bristled.

"Who would let you live," Snape responded quietly, "after all that you've done? You have destroyed the life that the world used to covet and care for. After this, there are no paths back. You've condemned not only yourself, but many others. I won't be the one to throw you out, but someone else will."

Snape's voice dropped into a terrible whisper, like a breath between the teeth of a monster on his neck, one that was very prepared to bite for the sake of the survival of its own life. "Who would let you live?" the man repeated with a tone sad enough that Harry's entire body curled up to block the emotion out. 

It was not a recollection Harry was happy to revisit, and so he grabbed up the vial and shoved it into his desk. It was useless now. But thoughts of Snape so at odds with him reminded Harry of another time. He did not turn to stare at the sofa he and Draco normally shared in the evening. He knew exactly what it looked like anyway.

_"He told me you cared for no one but yourself. He said that, given the chance for your ambitions, you would have me dead. Though my main dispute deals with my involuntary martyrdom for your cause, he also mentioned you would dispose of Blaise in the same manner. I think his issues extend past my dislike for sacrifice. He also mentioned your direct disregard for his life and the world at large. I know you're a selfish prick, Potter, but I do have to draw the line at your casual indifference for my best friend's and godfather's lives."_

Harry felt rage, hot and mean, envelop him. "This is about me not caring enough for you?" he asked softly and cruelly.

"No," Draco said, seeming infernally calm. "I know where we stand. This is about your power, and how even your allies aren't safe from it. Severus told me about that little girl—"

"Don't you fucking dare bring her up!" Harry bellowed, flying to his feet. "You don't have any idea…you don't fucking know anything about it!"

"I know enough, Potter," Draco retorted idly, with that look still on his face; it was one that said he was appeasing a small child. "I know she died for her father's loyal friendship to you. I know that you tried to comfort yourself by diverting the blame away from yourself. How many people have to die before you take responsibility?"

"That's a laugh, Draco," Harry bit out, chuckling humorlessly. "What about what you've done? Have you blamed yourself accordingly enough?"

"I'm serving my penance," Draco pointed out, widening his arms with his palms up, "in exile. Would you rather I went to Azkaban for it?"

Harry stewed in silence, wanting to take back everything he had said, but he didn't have the courage.  
  
_"No," Draco whispered for him. "I'm too useful to you. Or my cock is, Potter. I'm not sure which is more important. But you don't care enough about your tools to clear my name with your gold-hearted status at the Ministry. You don't consider anyone but yourself at all. Normally, I would see that as a fine quality, but, whereas I have adapted to you, you haven't to me. I've fucked you when you wanted it. I've kept your secrets. I've risked everything to support you. I grew up, Potter. Perhaps it's time you did as well."  
_  
The words still hurt, even now. But Draco's point had been made. Harry was selfish. He was selfish and reckless, and he didn't think properly. Harry reached out to steady himself on the table. God, what had he done? Why did Draco have to be right? He hated—no, he didn't. He couldn't blame Draco. He remembered another time, when they had spoken honestly to each other. A memory that simply supported the fact Harry could never hate Draco. Not on his life.

_"So, this all came to you…in a dream?" he finally asked, and his tone was skeptical, but curious._

Without meaning to, Harry let loose a sigh of relief that did not go unnoticed by Draco, who raised his eyebrows.

"Yes," he nodded. "I would normally discount something so fantastical, but that fire – in the dream and in real life – it burned down the house. I burned down the house."

"And then you were left to die," Draco continued for him. "Left homeless because they were scared of you."  
  
_"They didn't want me," Harry argued. "Their fear wouldn't have mattered if they'd wanted me."_

Draco frowned, looking out the window. "I won't pretend to understand," he said, "but I'm glad you told me. I need to ask you a question, though. What makes you think it wasn't just a dream?"

Harry blinked, but then he narrowed his eyes. "I survived, didn't I?" he disagreed, jutting a thumb at himself. "I became something so extraordinarily different than what I was. How can that be anything but something incorporeal and meticulous?"

Shaking his head, Draco set his teacup down and stared at him closely. "It could be just you," Draco said. "It could be that you're the exception. We're the exception."

"Then you don't believe in destiny?" Harry countered heatedly. "I seem to remember a Prophecy that dictated certain things I have done. A Prophecy, that, without which, Dumbledore would not have brought me here. And I wouldn't have met you."  
  
_Draco scoffed. "You're reaching." He waved a hand. "What do you want me to say? I think the dream could likely be real, that something came to you with a task. Or, it could be the fanciful wish of a little boy in a cupboard. But you might never know, you realize? It could be that you'll do all of this battling for an answer you'll never have."_

Harry observed him thoughtfully. "I know. There're others who think this war was prophesized. Griphook. Guillermo. Perhaps it's not my imagination, Draco."

"Or they're just as insane as you are," he disputed nonchalantly, shifting in his seat. Harry glared at him, and Draco laughed. "No, I don't think you're insane. I only think you are what you are because of what happened."

He simply had to roll his eyes and groan. "Oh, don't bring it up," he cursed. "I'm so very tired of this subject. Circumstances make a person, but I've persevered. I'm better than my circumstances."

"Without them there would be nothing to be better for," Draco said.

Despite the fact that Draco's words were meant to be comforting, and despite Harry's confidence, Harry felt as though he hadn't survived, in the end. Yet he had told Draco about the task, and his faith remained in the dream that was not a dream. Draco's countenance, understanding in the face of something so incomprehensible, made Harry want to sleep forever. His hands clenched on the table top.

Others had told him the task was real, and it kept him from losing faith. He would finish it now, and, though he felt none of the pride at his success that he had thought he would feel, at least it was done. Griphook, Alejandro...the dream. There could be no mistaking the legitimacy of the task. He could not afford to doubt now.

And as if summoned by his thoughts, there was a disturbance from behind him. It sent his memories running and his resolve rising, like an overflowing river bent on washing the world away. Griphook stood at the entrance to his rooms, carrying a snitch in his right hand. 

.o00o.

"What are you doing here?"

Griphook did not find this query rude, for Harry hadn't asked it in an impatient or unwelcoming way. Harry was not surprised to see him, strangely enough, and he turned to face the goblin fully as he made his way towards Harry. Griphook had an odd look on his face, as though he were facing an impossible quandary, and Harry mimicked the expression with his own confusion. The goblin was never hesitant to speak with him, though he was now.

"They're in the Great Hall," Griphook said. "McGonagall has detained the attackers, but Rahul is not with them. The ministry is on their way."

Harry nodded briefly and looked away. "He's here, somewhere," Harry muttered.

"He's waiting for you," said Griphook, now standing in the middle of the room. "I don't know if it's time yet."

He snapped his head around to frown at the goblin. "Of course it is," Harry argued, but without heat. "Are you suggesting I run? That I leave our confrontation to another time?"

Griphook was silent. Harry made a short, scoffing noise and grabbed the rest of his things, smoothing down his coat nervously. "I'm not a coward, Griphook," Harry told him.

When the goblin still would not speak, Harry shook his head and went on ignoring him. Whatever purpose Griphook had for coming here, to Harry, at this obviously trying time, he was unproductively quiet about it. Harry needed to hurry now, so if Griphook simply could not say what he wanted—

"There was never any god."

Cut off from his thoughts, Harry stared at him. As confused as he was about Griphook's bizarre statement, he felt as though he knew exactly what was being addressed. His heart pounded in his chest, his forehead notched in anxiety, and he licked his bottom lip and asked, "What?"

Griphook seemed sorry to have said it, but he plowed onward. "There was never any god," he repeated. "There was no god but yourself, and no task but what you made on your own."

Harry's jaw clenched. He breathed in quickly, through his teeth. "What are you talking about?"

"About the task," Griphook said, his gnarled fingers clasped. "There was no god, Harry Potter, that led you to today."

He knew, yes, he knew what Griphook was saying now. He did not accept it. "It wasn't just a dream—" Harry said, stopping himself from going on. His hands were shaking.

"No, it wasn't just a dream," Griphook confirmed. His eyes were bright and narrowed.

Harry released a shuddering breath. "Your Prophecy – you said a goblin...you said—"

"Yes, it was my Prophecy," he agreed, nodding.

Panic came, both permanent and wild, as a notch of energy and static in his chest. It ran like electricity through his body and down to his fingers and toes. Griphook watched him.

"I don't know if it's time to tell you," Griphook went on, "but you deserve a warning."

"What do you need to tell me?" Harry demanded, his voice hoarse and painful. "What's the point in taking it from me?" he asked, quieter than before.

Griphook glanced down at his hands, where the snitch was folded in between them, and raised his palm upward. Harry looked at the offered snitch but did not take it.

"I open at the close," Griphook said, as if reciting something. "Albus Dumbledore requested that this come to you. He seemed to think you would need it."

Harry swallowed, his eyes on the snitch. "What is it?" he whispered. Harry knew what it was.

Griphook blinked slowly. "He only said it was a source of strength at the close. To help you," he explained. "You know what it is."

He kept his gaze fixed on the golden ball. But his heart and mind remembered. The memory of the words prompted him to speak. "Don't ask the dead for forgiveness," he murmured, his face threatening, wanting so badly, to crumble. He closed his eyes to get away from the image of the snitch.

And the Resurrection Stone within it.

_"Don't ask the dead for forgiveness, Henry," Denny finally said, his intense stare never leaving his son. Not for a moment. "You can't yet, not until you meet them again. But you can start with the living."_

"But I can start with the living," Harry said, opening his eyes again and exhaling – loudly, as if it were his last breath.

Griphook observed him the entire time, and, with Harry's refusal, he nodded and said, "Very well."

The snitch rocked as it was placed on the table. Griphook gazed at him candidly, as if he had never seen Harry before. "It takes a good man to refuse mercy from the dead."

"It takes a guilty man, Griphook," Harry snapped at him. He turned his back on the goblin and tried, desperately, to not ask what he wanted to. His will failed, and he clenched his teeth and said, "How do you know it wasn't something more?"

From behind him, Griphook shuffled. "You tell me," he answered vaguely. "And it was always something more, just not what you thought it was."

Harry let out a dry, un-amused laugh. Like a wasteland he was stuck in without water or shade. "But destiny—"

"You made your own," Griphook interrupted. His tone was not soothing; in fact, it could only be understood as cruel. Malicious, even, in its honesty.

He felt that he could look at Griphook again, and so he did. "You don't think I need strength to face the war," Harry surmised coldly.

"No," said Griphook. "I think you need weakness. You know that I am right."

And Griphook was right, Harry thought. He would not need confidence for this. Did he ever need to be confident again? The task, however...unreal, had been accomplished. He had done as he was told. What strength was needed, now, at the end, at the close to a commanded journey that didn't seem to be fated, as he'd thought? Yet, he denied the words Griphook said, and the goblin knew it.

"There was no god," Griphook told him, again. One last bullet in one dead man. "You need to know, so that you have no more excuses."

Harry's body shuddered, and he wanted, so badly, to collapse in on himself and die. To go away and never, ever return. Not in spirit and not in memory.

"No more," Harry begged, his eyelids squeezing out tears. Impossible, dangerous tears that Harry hated. "Not now."

"You're right," Griphook said, and Harry looked at him. "It is not now. But I've told you a truth and now you must go."

"And give in," Harry agreed, his teeth chattering together due to some un-nameable cold. "God, I don't want to give in."

"But you know you have to," the goblin said. He turned around and made to leave. Harry watched him go.

"There was no purpose?" Harry blurted to Griphook's back. The goblin stilled, just in front of the door.

He said nothing to Harry's question, which was answer enough. Answer enough and despairing enough to pull Harry to the floor. Griphook disappeared.

It was not strength that got Harry to his feet, minutes after their conversation. It was not a sense of purpose.

He gathered the pieces of himself with broken constraint, and left to face the living. 

.o00o.

In the hall, just before the outside world met the castle, with the doors wide and open, so abjectly contrary with its vision of a bright day, Arif Rahul waited for him.

Harry approached without delaying. He noticed, in a preoccupied sort of way, that his hands were shaking and that he was far from composed. Oddly, he wasn't angry with Rahul. He didn't think he had the energy to be furious, as he should've been. Perhaps what little wrath he had felt had been expelled on Frank, but he hadn't been himself, then, either. Before that, he'd spent most of his time cutting through the lines, the barrier of men that divided him from the here and now. At present, facing Rahul, there wasn't much left to feel but resignation.

There was a possibility that Griphook's words had shaken him far more than he had let on. There was a disturbance within him now, one that he could not seem to ignore. A rift in the fabric of his ambitions and his reality. What could be real anymore? The nervous anticipation inside of him betrayed a terror that was entirely new to him.

A humiliation, a falsification of his own purpose, an awful fear that Griphook had spoken nothing but the truth.

If it were, then Harry wasn't confident how he would move on. Whereas before there had been no doubt that the future, for him, was still present, now, a great, ominous surety took hold. With no purpose, the destruction of his soul was undisputed.

But he could not afford to think of it now. Rahul had greeted him smoothly, casually, as if they were old friends. "Henry," he had said, tipping his chin in respect.

Harry swallowed, not liking that name. Hating it and what it represented. "Your men have been overpowered," Harry informed him quietly.

"It matters very little," Rahul commented, waving a hand. He wasn't meeting Harry squarely; rather, his body was turned to the side and facing the grounds he had been observing when Harry had arrived. He watched Harry out of the corner of his eye, though.

"No, I don't suppose it does," Harry conceded, bringing out his wand. It looked like Rahul had no weapon but an ornate, decorative pistol. "You don't plan on living anyway," he said, eyeing the gun.

Rahul shook his head, finally turning to him. "Not at all," he confirmed. "It's more honorable to die this way."

Harry laughed dryly. "You'll be the martyr, and I'll be the villain, right?" he said before losing his admittedly-weak smile and shrugging one shoulder. "It's fitting," he murmured.

"They'll hear my story and yours," Rahul told him, his gaze, confident, fixed upon Harry with apathetic sagacity. "How I sought only to bring a war criminal to justice. How you, so unsuspectingly, persuaded me to follow. I trust you have already killed McAllister."

Harry merely nodded.

"Ah, yes," Rahul smiled. "I predicted you well. You are right, Henry. When they find my written account of the war, they will think me a hero. I say that I am not. To you, I admit this."

"I don't think anybody is," Harry said to him, his shoulders slumped. "I don't blame you."

Rahul raised his eyebrows. "Not for your father's death?"

Pain, but not anger, streamed into his heart and throttled it. There didn't seem to be anyone he could blame for Denny's death. And Denny was dead. He had known it all along and would forever know it. Since Denny's passing, Harry had been aware of the loss he'd refused to acknowledge. The agony of it was still fresh, still cruel and ruthless, and Harry struggled with it now.

"No," he confessed, biting his lip until it hurt. "That was all me, Rahul."

The man watched him. "You seem cast down, at last," he mentioned, as if he approved. "I do not feel sorry for you."

Harry breathed in a shattered sort of way. "I can't stop myself from killing you."

"I won't simply let you."

He nodded. "Thanks."

Rahul suddenly shot at him, and Harry noticed two things very quickly. The first was that Rahul's pistol was modified, and not by him. The other was that the man was coming at him, charging him, with a dagger Harry hadn't noticed before. The bullet tore passed and connected with the corridor behind him. Harry brought up the Elder Wand with a curse and swung it down as it transfigured. The sword in his hand connected with Rahul's dagger and parried its blow.

The man was obviously skilled with his weapons. How he had tricked the pistol was a mystery, yet it was very different from Harry's guns. The shot had exploded into the wall, sending bits of rubble at his back. One particularly large piece hit Harry's shoulder, and he grunted and moved away from Rahul's attack. The pistol shot again, though this time it did not detonate like a bomb.

He met Rahul's dagger again and said, panting, "It's not strong enough."

It was true. The magic used to modify the gun was nowhere near strong enough. Despite the pressing matter of Rahul attacking him, Harry felt relief. There would be no way for Rahul, or anyone like him, to create a weapon more powerful. And if there was, Harry would be able to counter it. He was sure.

Yet, that would mean he would have to live to meet the threat. "Damn," he cursed, moving out of the way as the third bullet shattered the wall next to him.

The explosion rocketed through the hall, sending Harry to his knees. His ears were ringing, and there was a gash in his side where the rubble had slammed into him. Luckily, the debris had not been kind to Rahul either.

As the man got to his feet, Harry snapped the dagger out of his hand with edge of the sword. He let his wand transform back and struck out just as Rahul brought up his remaining weapon and fired. The bullet skimmed the side of his face, spurting blood down his neck, and embedded itself in the ground, blowing them both to the side. Harry's leg screamed in agony from the strain of his movements and the huge slather of rock that was now bearing down on it. He levitated it off of himself and climbed to his feet, rushing out of the way as Rahul shot again.

The bullet was relatively harmless this time, so Harry moved his body from fleeing to advancing. A curse took Rahul off guard and slammed him backwards. A tell-tale crack told Harry something vital had been damaged.

He limped nearer and noticed, not in time, that Rahul had gotten a hold of his dagger again. It flew at him, and his eyes widened as he moved to the left. It sunk into his arm, shredding the tissue there, cracking the bone. Pain seared and made him dizzy, very briefly, and he was fortunate that Rahul lay against the wall like a broken doll.

Harry grasped his throbbing arm and clenched his teeth, moving forward. "You're a good fucking fighter," Harry hissed at him.

Rahel's head came up from its bent, struggling position, and Harry saw blood fall from his lips when he spoke. "As are you," he said, softly with agony. "I'm afraid I can no longer move."

"I'm surprised I can," Harry told him, coughing out dust.

The corridor was destroyed, but Harry didn't have the energy to care. He grasped the hilt of the dagger and pulled it out, nearly screaming as it tore muscle again. A long line of blood traveled down his arm as he threw the knife away.

Rahul grinned up at him, his teeth red and gory, and said, "You'll meet them now. I had Coleman notify your Wizard Ministry."

Harry stopped in front of him and caught his breath. "Coleman?" he asked without curiosity. He picked up Rahul's pistol and held on to it as tight as he could.

Rahul knew what he was questioning. "Dead," the man laughed, wetly and painfully. "But then, everyone is dead now."

_Even us_, Rahul's expression said.

Harry looked away from him. Adrenaline slowly drained out of his trembling limbs, and the pain of his injuries made themselves known. Rahul looked to be immensely tormented by his own shattered frame, and Harry watched him as he wheezed. He did not feel vindicated, seeing Rahul this way. Harry recognized his present emotions as tired – exhausted, even – and quite despaired. It was the first time he had looked upon a man he was about to kill with sorrow. It was the first time he understood regret.

Despite it, he raised his wand. "I've never killed a man before," he said, his voice empty. He didn't know what made him say it.

Rahul leaned back his head, letting the blood from his mouth escape down his chin. "I'm honored to be the first," he said, laughing. A bloody, dirty hand went up to point at his heart. "For your father, Henry?"

But it wasn't for Denny. Harry knew, as he raised his wand a bit higher, that he wasn't killing this man for killing his father. Harry knew, as the bright green spell jolted into Rahul, that he had murdered Rahul simply because he could.

There was no purpose but indulgence in this death, and Harry wondered, as he stared down at Rahul's body, whether or not every man he had ever killed had been due to something selfish.

And he realized, with empty, emotionless clarity, that he had never been a good person. That every pointless death had made him pointless. That his reasons were wrong, and the price of his mistakes was too much to bear.

He had lost, and it was time to admit it. Only, it hurt more that he had expected. 

.o00o.

The way things had always been were now irrelevant. For most of his life, there had been a fire, a fury, in everything he had done. Harry moved like the flames, quick and elegant. Harry was the flames, destructive and cocksure. The blaze couldn't be felled, couldn't be controlled or stopped. Harry would not be touched.

A heat so deadly that his body died and became heat had evolved within him. Had adapted to his cold, cold life. As he stepped into the Great Hall, that inferno rose, venomous, and bit into his neck to spread the toxic hate deep within his veins. A hatred for itself, the fire, for himself, a boy. The same.

The Ministry was already there, Scrimgeour standing as regal as an old lion at the forefront of a crowd of Aurors. His eyes were like frost.

Behind him, a blur of faces looked out, the stunned and disarmed men at the foot of the dais. The teachers looked down upon him, the world now at a steep angle, staring at the boy at their feet. Harry dropped his head.

Scrimgeour was arresting him. His voice pounded through the hall and his head, naming his crimes, ordering his capture. He let the people around him hear Harry's guilt and see it. And it was personified in the dimming fire, the slouch of his back, the eyes they could not see. He would not look up.

He couldn't look up. To see their faces, betrayed, shocked, perhaps ashamed of him. To see their faces as a mirror of his soul. And here, in this crowd of knowers and children, Harry found himself in every destroyed gaze. Every accusing inhale, despite the suffocating power of the fire going out. The smoke in the air.

In. Out.

In. Out.

His fingers twitched, lax at his sides but for the strong grip he had on pistol and wand alike. The silence in the wake of the words, of those telling, damning words, shifted like a tide.

Harry could feel the cold as Scrimgeour ordered him to drop what weapons he had. His only defense that he knew, deep within his heart, was needless. Unnecessary. Just like him. He could feel the cold sea ready to take out whatever embers were left. A mass of water and resignation and fear.

The wave crested, looming above him, and he looked up. The water came in and washed him away.

He did as he was told, floating towards a certain fate for the first time in his life. Everything was decided, in that slow moment when the gun clattered the floor, when, following it like the echo of a mocking brother, the wand fell.

Harry's eyes ascended, past the expressions of failed trust and lost truth, and the waves crashed over him, and the fire finally, defeated, went out. What was left of it was steam and flooding. Biting at his ankles and smothering the world into something vague and unseen.

He raised his hands to the ceiling, and they were aware of his surrender, and he was aware of the fading purpose that he had lived for, so long ago.

The world gave a great gasping breath, changing as it settled, and Harry gave in and slept.

It was dreamless.


	26. Chapter Twenty Five

A/n: I'd like to thank everyone for reviewing and responding to me. Fourteen months and two long stories...not bad. You all made the toil and trouble worth it.

I will be responding to the reviews for both chapters, and next week you'll have your ending. What does this mean? It means next week it is all over. Oh noes! Oh yes. So review before it's too late! Also, I will be posting a couple more stories in the next month or so, but then I think I'll be done writing fanfic for the foreseeable future. Amazonia has given me projects *pouts*. Jkjk.

Special thanks to: **Ana**, **Airborne-Love**, **Dragonanzar**, **chys**, **Act V**, **kerplank**, **Dean** and _many others _who have stuck with me, supported me (in spirit or otherwise) and actually plowed through both stories while reviewing and responding to me along the way. You're all amazing. Thank you to the readers, the lurkers, all of the reviewers and commentators. I hope you've all enjoyed the story as much as I adored writing it.

Dedication: Panic Switch is dedicated to my best friend in the whole wide world. **Amazonia**and I worked a splendid partnership to complete PW and PS. Without her expert beta-ing skills, you wouldn't have a story. From me, I would like to thank my dearest Xena for everything. You're my best friend. You're unbelievably wonderful. I foresee a long road ahead of us, since nothing short of a lobotomy will keep me from writing. You'll have to clean up my messy stories for some time to come, it seems. I thank you. On the wings of maybe, baby.

Enjoy and as always, _review_!

Warnings for this chapter: language, angst, and plotting.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Twenty-Five

Draco observed the disorder that was the Wizengamot with a shrewd, cold glare. The gradually ascending tumult since the arrest of Harry Potter had thrown up the arms of the Ministry, flinging accusations and hypocrisy flying into the air. This was certainly not the only place in bedlam, but the lack of chaos everywhere else made this meeting doubly humorous.

Not that there was anything funny about it. To Draco, at least.

Celebrations took hold. The battles of yesterday were now at an impasse. Where civil war had plagued one country, their clean up would no doubt be harder. Yet, in the days afterward, there was a steady sense of accomplishment in the atmosphere. The most dangerous war criminal of the century, the instigator of a War of Worlds, as they called Harry, had been caught and would be tried. To light, came instances of murder, theft, and conspiracy. To light, came those who found solace in his execution, as a way to blame and to have peace. At last.

Governments, both Wizard and Muggle, came together to accumulate evidence of Harry's crimes. To foolproof his guilt and assure their conscience of his death. In unity, the world sought for the blood of Harry Potter. Together, for the first time in the history of the world.

Draco's interrogation had been just that morning. All of Harry's accomplices had plead not guilty to following him. Coercion was a common excuse. The Imperius was a reason, a rhyme, thrown about liberally. Some had been merely ignored for the greater picture of giving Harry away to death. Mina and Alejandro, for instance, had gotten off on sheer nerve alone. Though it was vastly decided that if they were to be tried, then so would the Minster, the Prime Minister, and the President. No one had won this war, and they were better for it.

Only Harry had lost, and the price was death.

His interrogation was a sham. The Aurors and Muggle officials questioning him were of a mind that Draco had been too smitten with Harry to see how terrible he was. That Draco was an unwitting victim of Harry Potter. As they all were.

Draco did not dispute it. And so he sat, watching the hubbub, and narrowed his clever gaze on the proceedings. Rahul's statement had been found, just minutes before the meeting, and his last letter was Harry's most damning piece of evidence. They would delay Harry's trial, keeping him in Azkaban, as they were now debating the merits of publicizing his execution. He hadn't even appeared in court yet, and Harry was already condemned.

Which Draco was sure was what the boy had planned.

But there were some who saw differently. A group of Muggles and Wizards had come together that morning to appeal to the combined judgment of each world. They claimed Harry had done good. That now the world would be better. Draco knew some idealistic sympathizer was behind it. He also knew it wouldn't work. Indeed, the appeal had been thrown out just as Harry's accomplices' testimonies had. There was no satisfying justice except with the spilt blood of one boy.

In return, the world was putting itself back together piece by piece. Quicker than Draco would have expected, even. Not to say all was well. China was still overwrought with warfare, rebels unheeding of the stalemate still striking at Wizards in the streets. Religious groups and blood purists had arrived in their places of consult to protest and bid for another outcome. To cry blasphemy and prevent the unity of the two societies. And after Rahul's sacrifice, the Middle East was calling for justice for their fallen representative. And not just for Harry's death, but for the leaders of each side to step down. The leaders who allowed the destruction of the world.

Yet, the combination of those interested in progression and peace outweighed the still active horrors. Even now, in the chaos of the Ministry, with Muggles and Wizards alike convening to decide Harry's fate, there was an underlining amusement within the squabbling. A feeling of cheer and hope, that the war was over and the evil had been contained.

Harry, his Harry, was in Azkaban with memories and remorse to break him. His Harry was serving a harsh, cruel punishment. His Harry was both guilty and innocent of the crimes they would kill him for.

Draco was not amused.

.o00o.

Mina glared at the man beside her. While her mostly incompetent informant prattled on about the upcoming trial, Alejandro remained stoic and placid, a stark difference to Mina's fidgety annoyance. Their argument had not been resolved, the unwelcome interruption of begrudgingly important news had seen to that. Discomfited, Mina sat back and listened to the rest of her employee's information with her arms crossed over her chest. Alejandro's lips quirked upward into a small, amused smirk. Mina bristled.

"Yes, yes," she snapped, turning her angry glower on her informant. "But when is the trial?"

The man in front of her answered, rather warily, after a short pause, "Three days."

"Three days!" Mina hollered. "It's been a week already! What are they doing—"

"Mina," Alejandro cut her off. "Calm down. You know why they're waiting."

She looked into his eyes and licked her lips. "Because...because they want to publicize it," she surmised, her face rapidly turning red. "Damn!"

"If that is all?" her informant spoke up, still looking concerned that Mina would yell at him. Or worse.

"Go," she barked at him, reaching for her full snifter and tossing it back. "God damn it all!"

Alejandro turned in his seat and placed his cane on the floor, reaching for her hands. "Mina, my dear," he said, trying to meet her eyes. "There is nothing we can do."

She shook her head, tearing her touch away from his. "You're wrong, Andro," she bit out. "We can get him back, our lives are forfeit, but we owe him as much—"

"They will execute him—"

"And we'll snatch him up before they can even sentence him, Andro! That way, when everyone calms down, he'll have a chance—"

Alejandro gave her a sorrowful glance. "They need to prosecute him, or there will be another war," he said calmly. "If we get him back, with the world watching, all of it will have been for nothing, Mina."

"Then we'll grab him during the execution; they'll have to let him out of the Wards for that," she argued, standing up and pacing over to her desk. She held the bottle in her hand tightly as she poured another hefty glass. "The trial will give them someone to blame. It's enough!"

"You're speaking nonsense," Alejandro told her. "If they execute him, it will be within the walls of Azkaban. But I don't believe they'll do that. They'll want it broadcasted."

"It's cruel!" she shrieked, throwing her glass and watching with satisfaction as it shattered against the wall. "It's fucking cruel, Andro."

They couldn't do anything without destroying everything. Time had gone still since the news of Henry's surrender. Mina didn't know which way was up. Without Alejandro, she would have likely been in prison alongside Henry, waiting for her dreaded farce of a trial. And it would be silly. There was possibly no escape from execution. Her heart burned with hatred at the thought of Henry in that Wizard prison, wondering where his allies were. Wondering why no one was coming to save him.

Alejandro didn't help. He was being blasted realistic. Mina knew she could do nothing without hurting herself, hurting Henry's plans, and she hated that it was so. She ached to help him, to be a friend to him. Henry needed them. Alejandro, obviously, disagreed.

And the execution. They would likely make it public, to perhaps inspire sympathizers to face them, to sign their own death away. But it was more to do with rebuilding all that was lost. There was hope in murder, and murder in hope.

God, but was it fucked up. Mina wanted to scream.

Yet, Henry had always known that this was the way the world worked. Henry had known.

"I know," Alejandro said in barely a whisper. "Mina, I know. But we must let fate decide Henry's future. Whether it be death or mercy."

"Fate!" she laughed sarcastically. "He's believed in fate, and this is where it put him! Underneath the blade of a world intent on blaming him for everything wrong with people!"

Alejandro shifted in his seat. "I believe he will survive this, Mina. I wouldn't suggest having faith in something you can't see, but at least believe in me."

"You've gotten idealistic!" she shouted at him, spinning around to pin him with a fierce scowl. "All this philosophy, it doesn't help anything! We're going to watch someone we admire die, for absolutely no reason, and not do anything!"

"For no reason?" he repeated, appearing shocked. "Mina, you know—"

"His task, yes, Andro, his ridiculous task," she cut him off. "It was all nonsense. Was he crazy?" Mina looked at him steadily, her anger fleeing in the face of sorrow. "Was he mad to think he was divine?"

"You don't believe he was," Alejandro said, frowning concernedly. "I don't think he is."

Mina waved a furious hand, frustration clenching her insides. "It's because we know him and like him," she said truthfully. "But were we blind, and did we not see that he was a fanatic?"

He blinked. "He isn't gone yet, Mina," he reminded her, referring to her use of the past tense.

"As good as!" she countered gruffly, turning away from him again. "Do we believe in him and not his purpose? Was it the same thing? What am I supposed to think, Andro?"

"He accomplished what he set out to do."

"At the price of his life? At the price of us watching him die? How can a fate like this be real? Executing him appeals to everything wrong in the world, everything he tried so hard to change. It's a big, hilarious joke!" she said, throwing her hands into the air.

"What are you asking me?" he queried, once a stewing silence had passed. Mina looked at him again, this time sincere in her questions. She wanted and need to know.

She took a breath. "Was it real, Andro?"

"You think I know the answer," he murmured.

"I know you do," she pressed.

Alejandro sighed and sat back, relaxing against the sofa. "Come here to me," he told her, offering his hand. Mina hesitated only a moment before meandering over, grabbing up the bottle left on her desk. She fit comfortably beside him, his arm around her shoulder as she lay with her head on his stomach. His breathing was like the sea, up and down and in and out. Loud and calming.

"I have believed in Henry from the start," he whispered to her.

Mina took a swig out of the bottle. "But you won't save him," she croaked.

He gathered her close, running his free hand through her hair. She relaxed against him, finally still and without the fury she'd possessed for what had seemed like an age. Alejandro did not answer her, but Mina knew it wasn't needed.

Whatever he believed was enough for her, but it wasn't enough for Henry. For the boy they were leaving to die. Mina wanted to sob, to hate and hurt herself. Alejandro and his soothing, relentless presence prevented her. She didn't know whether to hate him for being there or not.

His warm hand lulled her to sleep, and, for the first time in a week, it was not restless or full of despair. Mina could never hate him for abandoning Henry, but she settled for hating herself.

In sleep, she surmised, if unconsciously, that would have to do.

.o00o.

He flattened out the Daily Prophet, his hands looking thin and frail against the newsprint, and sighed at the headline.

_Scrimgeour Signs Peace Treaty, Potter Trial Scheduled_

The article was informative, one of The Daily Prophet's more serious publications, which was no wonder, given the events in the world. Yet there was no sarcastic cheer in him at the paper's apparent change of tone because, underneath every critical word that was written, Harry's fate was exploited and entertained. As if the life of his godson was a show, an act, a great tragedy and justification. As if it was forfeit to the people tying his noose. Digging his grave.

Sirius breathed in the stale air of his kitchen and looked over the newspaper until he was too disgusted to read any more. Part of his problem, in the days after Harry's arrest, was his strong disbelief on the matter. It had handicapped him in every sense of the word. Shock froze Sirius into a state of inaction, before the anger had set it. His fury hadn't lasted long, perhaps only a few hours, and then despair, as cold in contrast to the heat of his anger, had taken him away.

Harry was going to die. His godson, his talented, clever, and strong godson, the son of his best friend, was going to be put on trial, a parody of a judgment in which the only acceptable outcome would be death. Sirius was hardly tolerant of this, and, though he understood how it could be done, he could not, on his life, understand why. There was no reconciliation with Harry's crimes, no comprehension or compassion. But Sirius loved Harry, and it was the cause of his ambivalence now.

Others, ones who did not know him, were quick to call for blood. Others who read the articles of condemnation, who depended upon the unstable leaders, believed Harry to be more than he was. They knew him as a devil that they could destroy. These others were irrelevant, unworthy and invisible to those who cared for Harry. They did not matter. Despite it, their word was worth more than Sirius's, because he knew Harry and they didn't. Ignorance. God, ignorance, made blissful by easy blame, had shattered, ruined and unveiled Sirius's heart without mercy.

Because Harry was guilty. It had taken him days to come to terms with it. Days of Arthur talking him through it, scheming and plotting to save Harry from execution. They, all of them who loved him, knew the boy was undoubtedly at fault. Molly had taken to barely speaking a word, ghosting about Grimmauld in a parody of her usual self. Arthur was frantically trying, unsuccessfully, to spread some word of understanding and pardon for Harry.

"But he's done some good! Do you see?" he would say to the various Order members and Ministry workers he encountered.

Sirius had howled at him that he didn't think Harry had done any good. That Arthur's new opinion was hypocritical and deceitful. And Arthur had screamed back, "It doesn't matter what I think, he's my son!"

And that was the rub, wasn't it? It was all to do with love, and anything else, anything damning or cruel, could not be a part of that love. Sirius despised what Harry had done, disagreed with it, was disgusted by it, but besides that running parallel to his affection, everything realistic was worthless. Harry was his godson, and he was going to die.

"God dammit," he whispered to himself, lowering his head into his hands.

"Sirius, put the paper away," Arthur's voice came from the door. He opened his eyes and stared at the man as he journeyed into the room.

Arthur Weasley looked about as haunted and sleepless as Sirius did. His eyes were red and spotty, his face thin and the color of wax. In the dim light of the kitchen, he imagined an outsider might think them both ghosts. "The trial is in two days," Sirius croaked, running a hand down his oily, unwashed face. God, but he was falling apart.

Starting a bit at the news, Arthur sighed deeply and pulled out a chair. When he sat, Sirius wasn't sure if the chair had creaked or if Arthur had. They looked at each other for a moment, thinking a conversation that didn't need to be said out loud. Regardless, Sirius gave him an anticipatory look, seemingly ready to dive right into the subject they were supposed to be avoiding. Again.

"I'm doing what I can—"

"You're not doing enough," Sirius snapped, slamming his cup down and sloshing tea onto the table. "We should break him out."

Arthur scowled at him. "We're not there yet, Sirius. We're not that desperate."

"The trial is in two days! Two! We _are_that desperate!" he said furiously, his voice rising.

Looking distressed, Arthur's eyes quickly moved to the staircase, warning Sirius to be quiet, lest Molly arrive to inspect the noise. She was currently trying to get a troubled Cassie down to sleep. Considerately, Sirius tamed his sudden frustration and nodded stiffly.

"They haven't asked us to be witnesses," Sirius whispered furiously. "What about Ron?"

Arthur's expression shuttered. "I received a letter from him this morning. Harry's defense," he paused and grimaced at the term. The man defending Harry was doing a lackluster job, at best. He didn't give a wit, it seemed, about the outcome of the trial. "He hasn't contacted any of Harry's friends. Ron spoke to Draco Malfoy—"

"That bloody brat," Sirius cursed. "It's nice to see he has his father's ability to turn on his allies."

"You don't know that he's turned against Harry," he pointed out.

Sirius scoffed. "Ron doesn't like him," he countered gruffly. "Did the defense ask for Malfoy's testimony?"

"No," Arthur answered. "No, they haven't. Ron is...very upset."

"His best friend is going to die."

"Don't—" Arthur held up a hand to keep him from saying anything else horrid. "Just don't, Sirius."

He fell silent as amicably as he could. When he glanced down at his hands, lowering his eyes from the scene of a distraught Arthur, he noticed that his hands were dry and cracking. It wasn't painful, nothing really was anymore, and he knew the reason why and tried, very hard, not to think of the horrors of Azkaban. But the numbing of senses, the blind fog of misery that the prison inspired, followed him wherever he went. It made him believe, at times, that his freedom meant little, not when he still dreamt, awake or asleep, of his imprisonment.

Sirius knew what Azkaban was like. He knew what it was like for a guilty man. An unrepentant one. A destroyed young man with regrets. He knew, and he feared that the part of him resigned, the part of him that cursed Harry for being there (not innocently, not unsullied), thought death was better than a life in that prison. Thought Harry might just deserve it.

Yet, his heart writhed in agony when thinking his godson vindicated. As torn as he was on the opinion of Harry's fate, Harry was still Harry. They still knew him and loved him. And that was that.

"I want to see him," Sirius said to Arthur, quietly, as if disturbing their silence would awaken some kind of monster. "We should go see him."

"It won't be a pretty sight," he responded in barely a whisper.

Sirius shook his head. "If it were, I wouldn't want to see him," he said.

Closing his eyes briefly, Arthur looked at nothing. Though, it appeared by the pain etched into his face, his sightless gaze saw something far worse. Perhaps what Sirius dreamed of: Azkaban, and their Harry stuck there. Stuck there forever.

Arthur came back to himself, his blue eyes dulled, and said, "All right." He sighed deeply. "Tomorrow."

They sat in the dreary kitchen for a long time. They did not talk. _Tomorrow_, Sirius thought, and wondered why he wasn't happy to have Arthur's agreement with his suggestion. He wondered why we suddenly didn't want to see Harry at all.

.o00o.

"Well, shit," Donnelly said, throwing down his paperwork and marching towards his office. He didn't bother making sure the stack of forms got to his boss, or apologizing to the secretary he had just cursed at, and he pushed passed the other agents milling about the hall. The slip of paper in his hand crinkled under the force of his fist.

He would refuse. Donnelly simply had to. He wasn't sure why he was so against it, but that didn't matter. His gut said no, and Donnelly appreciated his instincts, and despised them at the same time. When he made it to the set of cubicles he shared with Monroe and Marks, he found them chatting over the coffee machine and generally doing nothing. This angered him, as he knew it would, since he was in such an awful mood, and he strode over and threw the crumpled paper at Marks's head.

"Okay, thanks," Marks said, catching the ball as it bounced off of his hair.

As he was flattening it out, Donnelly said to the both of them, "They want me as a witness."

Monroe's eyebrows rose. "You?" she asked, rather shocked. Donnelly tried very hard not to bristle at her tone.

"It says the trial is in two days," Marks read. "They're telling you now?"

"Which means I can refuse, and they wouldn't give a fuck," Donnelly snapped.

Monroe took the paper from Marks and stared at it. "Harry's defense is a Wizard," she read off of the note. "You'd have to go to their Ministry."

Donnelly shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at her crossly. "No chance in hell am I doing that," he rebutted.

"Did they ask for a testimony before now?" Marks questioned, leaning against his desk. His usual good humor was no where to be seen.

Donnelly scowled at him. "No," he said simply.

"Then you have to go," Monroe told him, setting down the missive. "Harry's defense is obviously not trying to help him! You have to put in a good word for him!"

"He's guilty, Monroe," Donnelly reminded her. "Fucking really guilty."

"Everyone has a right to a fair trial!"

Marks groaned. "It's too early for the constitution, thanks."

She looked just as angry as Donnelly now. "You have to go and defend him," she asserted. "They're asking _you_, which means they're looking for someone to condemn him."

"They could have a solid defense, Monroe," Marks commented. "Donnelly could just be the half-assed contending perspective. Or a forgotten ally. He might be able to refuse just because Harry's in good hands."

"Sure," she snorted, sounding rather unladylike. Donnelly, amidst his exasperation, thought it was oddly charming. "Have you read the papers? They're talking about the execution already!"

Monroe was right, regrettably. Marks and Donnelly both knew what the current opinion of Harry was. They didn't fully agree with it, but, as officers, they had to understand justice. It was enough that they were even considering Harry, which was a testament to knowing him and maybe (perhaps a little bit) caring about him. Monroe was more compassionate then them, of course, but they weren't surprised. Monroe was a rookie, and a woman.

Women always seemed to care more than men, Donnelly found, and, he begrudgingly had to admit, they knew a hell of a lot more. At least when it came to humanity. Monroe was right. There was no defense for Harry, and the note asking him to testify was a bid for another nail in Harry's coffin. He imagined each witness as one bullet after another, hitting someone who was already dead.

"Even if I did defend him," Donnelly said after a short silence. "What fucking good would it do?"

Monroe seethed. "You're everything Harry tried to change, you know," she spat at him. "I bet you're mostly reluctant because of what it would do to your reputation."

"If you actually think about it, Monroe," he fumed back at her, "I would be defending a criminal who is already sentenced to death. What the fuck do you think people will say about that?"

"Oh, I don't know, that you're compassionate?" she snapped.

"They'll think I was bribed, Monroe, that I was involved!" he shouted at her, his shoulders and chin raised. "This..." He picked up the paper his boss had sent him and threw it down again. "This means they know I was somehow involved! I can't fucking risk my entire team by defending him. So if I go, Monroe, I go to condemn him. Do you fucking understand?"

Her eyes did flash with sudden comprehension, though the fury never left her. "You're just as bad as everyone else," Monroe said. "No one ever wants to do anything. Not even about the things we don't agree with."

"I'm sure Brooks has quite a few friends who are trying to get him out of trouble," Donnelly said tensely, not looking at Monroe to prevent himself from hitting her.

"Based on his ridiculous farce of a defense, I bet they won't be included in the trial," she retorted hotly.

"Monroe, for fuck's sake—"

"All right, all right," Marks interrupted him, standing straight. He held his hands out as if pushing their anger at each other back. "You're forgetting something real important here."

Monroe threw a finger at Donnelly. "He's a coward!"

Donnelly scowled and stepped forward, wanting to shout at her, to make her see some kind of reason. Marks moved in between them.

"Just stop, guys," he said. "Now, listen, we know Henry, or Harry… whatever. We know him."

They listened, despite themselves, wondering where Marks was going with this.

"We know him and care about him, no matter who tries to deny it," Monroe couldn't help but jab.

Marks glared at her. "Just listen, all right? We know this kid. We know how he thinks. Why would he surrender if he didn't accept what the world would do to him?"

_Now that was an interesting question,_Donnelly confessed to himself. He suddenly knew that he was aware of the answer, and the relief he felt was tinged with guilt. "He needs to be prosecuted," he concluded, nodding at Marks in thanks.

"I don't believe you two!" Monroe began, but Marks waved a hand in her face.

"The kid doesn't want to be saved," he said. "If he gets off, there will be chaos. If he's killed, people will be satisfied. People will move on."

Monroe leaned back, away from them both. "You honestly think it'll be better, that we can sleep at night, with Harry dead?"

"He's always been altruistic," Marks reasoned with her. "Maybe a sadistic altruist, but a goody, all the same."

"I don't know about a goody," Donnelly argued gruffly, not heated anymore. "He killed a lot of people."

"He was doing what he thought was right," Marks said. "It's delusional, and illogical, but he thought it was right, boss."

"Serial murderers agree with him, I'm sure," he murmured, but didn't contend with Marks's facts.

Marks lifted a shoulder. "You gotta admit that things are looking up," he mentioned. "The treaty was signed. He's being prosecuted by our governments and the Wizard governments. They're not separated anymore."

"I'd rather they were, if he'd get a fair trial," Monroe said, her expression one of resigned contrariness.

Donnelly looked at the paper. "I won't go," he decided, glancing at Monroe. "Because I understand his options."

"I don't like them!" Monroe said – her last defense.

Marks's laughter brought their gazes around to stare at him. "There's one more thing that can be done," he said, lifting up a finger and looking smug. "He can escape."

"Oh, that's a fantastic idea, asshole," Donnelly said, not amused.

"Think about it," Marks went on. "He gets off, we've got another war. He dies, everything is dandy. He escapes... Well, we've got cooperation from both sides to take him down. And the government will likely cover it up, so the people are happy. The man is happy, because there's still a criminal to catch."

Donnelly glared at him. "You should know, as a federal agent, that putting a criminal away is the best feeling in the world. If one of my guys escaped, Marks, I'd be fucking furious."

"You'd furiously happy," Marks added, winking at him. "There's nothing like the catch and release. The cat and mouse. It's the thing that gets you out of bed in the morning. And, you know, it helps that none of us want the kid dead."

He couldn't disagree with that. "We're not breaking him out," he retorted, unwilling to let Marks even think that that was an option.

"No," Marks shrugged. "We'll leave that to someone else."

Monroe, who had lost steam rather quickly, crossed her arms and shook her head at them. "I don't see that happening," she said.

Donnelly watched Marks's nonchalance morph into humor. His good humor that Donnelly confessed he enjoyed. "We're not the only ones on his side," Marks told her. "Have some faith, Monroe."

She laughed, though it was heavy with sorrow and hopelessness. Donnelly smiled, and Monroe caught him at it. She smiled back.

"All right," she said, a bit teary. "I can do that."

"Faith!" Marks prodded with a happy grin.

Donnelly rolled his eyes.

.o00o.

Azkaban was a towering mass of black stone and sinister weather. The sea around the man-made island was consistently torrential, chopping waves into harsh arches and pouring down painful rain. Drops of it froze before it hit the water, tiny icicles that bit into the skin and eyes. A swarm of Dementors rode the storm high above, circling in restlessness. Their magic, the cold tendrils of it so malicious in nature, caused this never-ending tempest. A forever-agony that seemed sentient in the prison itself.

Arthur watched Sirius closely, his gaze narrowed on the man's shaking, sweaty form. He had figured Sirius wouldn't be in the best shape, returning to the prison, but he had trusted Sirius's resolve to visit his godson. He had trusted the man to tell him if it was too much. Yet it seemed as though he might've been wrong. Sirius did not look well.

The boat they were escorted in was covered from the dangerous storm, and there was hardly any rocking, despite the angry sea. Sirius's pallor and trembling could not be mistaken for sea sickness. Arthur reached out and touched his arm.

"Sirius," he said, gently enough that the Aurors accompanying them would not hear. "You don't have to do this."

When the man turned to look at him, Arthur was startled at just how badly Sirius appeared. All of the liveliness, the wholeness that Sirius had gotten back since his freedom, was gone. An old, broken man sat beside him, and Arthur felt deep, horrified regret that he'd ever agreed to this.

"I hate—" Sirius croaked, barely discernible over the storm. "I hate this place. I hate it."

One of the Aurors looked at them curiously, a bit of suspicion is his gaze, and Arthur sat back and stayed silent for the rest of the ride. He didn't see why they should suspect anything, for, at the port tower, they had taken their wands, and neither of them had any weapons, despite the Aurors' vigilant check. Sirius seemed to deflate more and more as they got closer to Azkaban. The Dementors appeared to mock his agitated state by moving faster and faster against the wind.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminable voyage, they moored on a rickety looking dock leading to the tiny entrance of the prison.

The Aurors disembarked first, rocking the boat sideways as they hopped onto the wooden platform. They had their Patroni out the moment they landed – one an owl and the other a wolf – and, expectantly, they stared at Arthur and Sirius. He rose to his feet, accepting the steadying hand one Auror offered him, and looked back at Sirius. The poor man was huddled into his robes, his arms clasped around his stomach, staring unblinkingly out at the Dementors with terrified eyes.

Arthur made it onto the dock and turned to the Auror beside him. "Can you take him back?" he asked, not bothering to really lower his voice. Sirius was too far gone to hear him anyway.

"More than one Auror is meant to be with visitors at all times—" the man began to say, but Arthur interrupted him.

"That man is Sirius Black," he said. "Falsely imprisoned here for fourteen years."

"Then you shouldn't have brought him," the other Auror told him. "You're also Arthur Weasley, well-known sympathizer of the man you want to visit. A man imprisoned here for good reason."

Arthur's hands clenched into fists, and he shook with fury. "Take him back," he snapped. "I won't be breaking out Harry Potter, if that's what you're thinking."

"Would you swear on it?" the Auror asked.

He was grinding his teeth as he agreed. They quickly clambered back into the boat, which seemed to mask their emotions enough to not attract the Dementors, and spoke the vow. When Arthur and the Auror got out of the boat once more, they were given a limit of fifteen minutes. With a nod, the boat was off again. Arthur watched Sirius's hunched form for a moment, and then he was off toward the large grey doors.

They reached almost half the length of the building, as imposing as the Dementors themselves. With a great boom, they swung open and closed behind them, sending a draft of ice at Arthur's back. The Auror lead him down the hall and into a room. The door was the silvery, bright color of a Patronus. Arthur marveled at the charm work for a moment, until he was in the room itself, nearly gasping at the change in temperature.

The room was warm with the Wards it was seemingly made out of. Inside, a guard sat at a small desk in between two stacks of papers. It was a crossroads of sorts, the desk was directly in the middle of two steel doors. A self-writing quill ran across parchments before they floated gently into one of the two piles. The guard did not acknowledge them when they arrived, nor did he look up as the door slammed shut.

"Arthur Weasley, here to see Harry Potter," the Auror said to the guard clearly.

"It'll be ten minutes," the guard responded.

Arthur gave the Auror a desperate look. "We've got fifteen until the boat returns, Tannings," the Auror pointed out.

Finally, the man, Tannings, looked up at them, an ugly scowl on his face. "Then it'll have to bloody wait. Potter's on Level eight, Georges. Left door," he retorted scathingly, whipping his quill to the left.

Auror Georges rolled his eyes and moved toward the door, opening it for Arthur. Inside, there was a smooth, white table with two chairs around it. Arthur sat in the one Georges waved to and stared at the other. Chains were secured to the ground, leading up to a strap that went about the waist and the neck. Manacles were attached to the arms and ankles, restricting any and all movement for the prisoner. It was barbaric, in Arthur's eyes, and horrifying, what with his knowledge that Harry would soon be in that seat.

Yet, Arthur knew that if it were, say, Bellatrix Lestrange he was visiting, that chair would seem necessary. It would seem right.

It was a sobering, awful thought, and Arthur closed his eyes and opened them when his head was turned away. They waited. Time dragged on, ten minutes felt like it had gone by, but Arthur was jaded enough to know it hadn't. Auror Georges stood behind him, guarding the door, and it made Arthur nervous, though there was no tingle along the back of his neck that said Georges was staring at him.

The entrance swung open, and Arthur jumped. Finally, two guards came into the room, a boy between them, and one more guard, who'd been walking behind them, shut the door with a snap. Arthur saw Harry then, and he couldn't stop the strangled gasp that emerged out of his throat.

A week and a few days in Azkaban had emaciated Harry. He was nothing but skin and bones, his eyes, normally so alive and possessed with a bright spark of intelligence, were dulled and glassy. He was dressed in the clothes he had been brought in. They smelled, unwashed and grimy, and Harry himself seemed covered in dirt and, terrifyingly, blood. Arthur pinpointed where the blood had come from when he glanced at Harry's fingers. The nails were chipped and the color of rust. He looked closer. Harry's skinny arms were covered in long, jagged lines.

He shuddered from the sight and the smell as Harry was deposited into the chair and strapped down. Harry's head lulled to sit on his chest, and his greasy hair completely obscured his face. Roughly, the guard dragged Harry's head up to attach the neck brace, and Arthur reached out a hand.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked, somewhat hysterically.

The guard scowled at him. "If you don't want your hand bitten off," he snapped, glancing down at Arthur's outstretched arm.

"Harry wouldn't do that," he said, but, regardless, he drew his hand away.

One of the guards grunted and stared at Arthur as if he were a very naive young man, which was funny in a not-so-funny way, considering the guard looked to be not a day over thirty. "Azkaban addles their minds," the guard told him, rather smugly. "I'll risk a visitor and take off the straps, but I won't risk my guards."

Arthur sighed in defeat and turned to look at Harry, who was staring sightlessly at the table. "Harry? Harry, I've come to see you," he called for the boy softly.

Harry did not move.

"Harry? Harry, can you hear me?" Arthur tried again. He waited for those eyes to look at him, to acknowledge him or recognize him. It did not happen. "Harry, please. Harry?"

"It might be no use, Weasley," Auror Georges piped up. "The worst criminals go mad the first few days. He might not be in there anymore," he said, knocking his knuckles on the top of Harry's head.

"Stop that!" Arthur nearly shouted, shaking with fury and anguish. "I'll keep trying, thank you!"

The guards sighed and leaned against the door, one hand on the wands in their pockets. Auror Georges shrugged and said, "Your nose" before sharing a grin with the guards. "Or, you know, ours," he joked, taking out his wand and tapping Harry on the shoulder. The smell instantly disappeared, and one of the guards laughed.

Arthur felt tears build up in his eyes and threaten to flood him as he called for Harry again. He tried, over and over to wake the boy up from his catatonic state. Yet Harry breathed but did not live.

"Harry, Harry, you know me—"

"Times up, Weasley," said Auror Georges. The guards suddenly moved forward and efficiently untied Harry from his chair. They conjured their Patroni as the door opened, dragging Harry through only after, absolutely needlessly, Immobilizing him.

Arthur watched this happen, speechless with shock, until the door shut behind Harry and only the guard and he were left in the room. Auror Georges sighed and helped Arthur to his feet.

They walked through the crossroads room and out into the hall. The doors opened again, and the cold hit him, twice as strong, worse than before. Down the path, the boat waited for them.

He left Azkaban behind, and, when he met a remorseful, agonized Sirius on dry, hot land, he had nothing to say to the man about his godson. Nothing at all.

.o00o.

The field was barren and cold. Grass crunched beneath his feet from the dew and the chill, and his boots were likely ruined, but he didn't much mind. Ahead of him, in the darkness, a fire was lit. It seemed brilliantly aglow at the forefront of such a black night, and he felt his eyes twitch at the sudden brightness.

In his hand, his wand thrummed along with his own anticipation. It was the same anxiety and need to act that had plagued him for a week now, only made stronger by the deadline hanging over his head.

He saw his partners around the firelight as he approached. A mass of dark scales and glowing eyes, and a miniature shadow, tiny against the blaze and the dragon beside him. They did not greet each other when he approached, for there was no need to, and he was short on time. They spoke quietly as the night lingered on.

Draco put the finishing touches on their plan, and then, at morning, he bade Griphook and the Dragon King a good day. Draco waited to act, but there was no doubt, none at all, that he would do _something_. And it would have to be soon.


	27. Chapter Twenty Six

Warnings for this chapter: angst, violence, language, and a plot twist.

* * *

Panic Switch

Chapter Twenty-Six

He was standing on the precipice of a great wall of cliffs. The wind and moisture off of the sea skinned him down to bare, ivory bones. In rags, layer upon layer of them, where holes covered holes, he felt the freeze worse than ever. The chill had come back to the coast, leaving the English Summer behind, and he was due back to the city. He craved a fire to keep the cold away.

But as hard as he tried, he could not conjure warmth. He snapped his fingers, over and over, but a hollow clap was all he could create. He huddled in his rags and examined them. He blamed them for being useless against the frost.

Below his feet, the sea crashed against the cliff in endless contest. It was a boiling, frothing mixture of rock and foam. As if a monster were opening its jaws in anticipation of his fall. He was desperate to get out of the storm, but every house he'd gone to had locked doors, deserted innards as if something had picked the good people out and ate them.

Every door that had opened had slammed in his dirty face. The little village on the coast, a surveyor city of the Atlantic, had been abandoned to the coming tempest. He wondered how they had known it would happen. He snapped his fingers again.

"Warm, warm," he chanted. "I've got to find some place that's warm."

His feet touched the edge of a cliff that seemed to be falling apart, pebble by pebble, as the sea pounded against it. Across the ocean, a daylight moon hung in a hammock of clouds. He looked at it furiously, wondering why it was there. Beneath the moon, a great wave rose and formed a terrible face, carved in ice and water and slushy, unmerciful cold. It rose up and up, heading towards the cliffs with dreadful purpose.

His heart accelerated. It threatened to shatter out of the fragile pile of bones that served as its bastion. His mouth opened to scream as the wave came at him with an unprecedented speed. It hit the cliff with a resounding crash, and he was thrown off of his feet. The rock and ruin beneath him shuddered, cracking slow enough that he could guess what happened next.

The cliff collapsed, and he went with it, into the icy chasm below.

He was looking at Tyler. Blood came in through the door, the windows, down from the sky. It had no other goal but to drown him. His pants were expensive but inch deep in the fluids. His shirt sleeves were dipped in it, like a parody of some sweet, strawberry confection. Tyler's body floated about the room, hitting things. Each time he went with the current and snapped against the furniture, pieces of him fell off. Burned to ash.

The ash was like oil to the blood's water. He reached down and shoved the remains deeper into the undertow. They bobbed back up, as if laughing at him. Now there was ash on him. Soaking into his hands, his arms, and he tried to claw it out, but it made more blood. More and more until it pooled out of his mouth and eyes and ears. The flood rose, suddenly reaching his chest. He swam for the door.

He was frightened to find that it would not open. Crimson stained his lips as it ascended above his chin. There was the sound of something breaking, and he looked over at the window. It had shattered, and a waterfall of red flowed into the room. He saw Tyler's body sink beneath the onslaught, and his hands left bloody prints upon the ceiling. He opened his mouth to scream as the blood rushed into him, over him.

He was outside a building, on a street he didn't know. The city stretched far into the night sky, clawed and grasping. The suffocating stench of fuel and steam invaded his nostrils. He was crying, and he was standing in a gutter filled with empty bottles. There were no cars about, no people – it was late at night, and the only sound he could hear was the drip drop of old rain coming off the roof of a nearby shop.

Cold and hungry, he sobbed as the lights of his Uncle's car drifted down what seemed like an endless street. They disappeared into the night, swallowed ravenously by darkness, and he sat on the curb and cried. He didn't know what he would do now. He was alone. As good as dead. He didn't have anything. They had left him. His family had left him.

They _left him_.

He knew enough to know he needed to get out of the street. Yet, it was comfortable here, as much as it could be, at least. He hunched over and grasped at his coat. It was too big and not at all warm. He would need food, water, and a place to stay. But the city seemed so very unwelcoming, and big, compared to how little he was. As he cried, there were shades of people passing him. Suddenly, the city was alive.

Their steps echoed in the darkness, and he looked up at them as they passed. They didn't seem to notice him at all, even when he reached out to tug on their trousers. And when some did finally see him, they looked away just as fast. They left him too.

He called for help, sobs distorting his words as his childishly tiny hands scrubbed at his face. No matter how hard he tried, the tears would not stop. His heart pounded with the pressure of despair as, one by one, the people disappeared. Some saw him; all of them kept walking. Going somewhere where he was forbidden to follow.

He cried out and fell into the gutter, beside the empty, broken bottles and in grungy, dirty water. When daylight came, he figured they would find his body and bury it. He closed his eyes, trembling as the pain in his heart moved like curious snakes, down to every part of him. To his fingers that tingled in agony. The little boy closed his eyes and waited to die.

He was being invaded soft and slow. The man on top of him was someone he trusted, someone he knew. They groaned and undulated, and he was rocking into him both painfully and pleasurably. He allowed himself to thrive in the sex, but his mind was not entirely upon it. It was too cold in the room, too uncomfortable. The window beside the bed was open, letting in the snow. In and out, as their copulation went, and he followed the movement halfheartedly.

This was an invasion, there was no denying it. This was his first time, and he felt used. He supposed he ought to get used to it. They had left him, them all, and this man would too. He couldn't seem to be too sad about it, since it was more pain than consensual pleasure. It was worse than anything he had ever felt before. He gasped as he climaxed, but the room dissolved and he was still being used. Roughly now. Cruelly. He let it happen. Drifting.

He was trying desperately to pick up the pieces of something dead. The ash was back and all over him. He was covered in it. He was crying.

He was killing someone who begged to live. He was reasoning this murder with confidence that they were not a good person. He was reasoning with something unreasonable. Enjoying it as only a bastard could.

He was dragging his father to a grave made of fire. It had disposed, evenly, of the people he knew. It would dispose of his memory and his body, both. He was dragging Denny's cold body into the heat, watching it melt before it touched the flame. He was no longer crying because what use was feeling anything? The terrible freeze had taken away any senses he had once had. He was done. He was dead.

Just like Denny. Just like those who he killed, all for a purpose that wasn't real. The delusion he lived in. He threw the body into the blaze and ran in with it. He died too.

He was watching the world burn. Everything he knew and wanted safe from himself was under an inferno twice as strong as his conviction. White was the color of the fire, cold was the hot, hot eater. The creature that consumed and writhed with consumption. He was not happy to see it burn. The flames and sparks obstructed a moon that looked on sadly. Knowingly. It was sure he was to blame, and he was. He was. All that was left were skeletons of things, and the cold that would stay forever because he was the fire. And he had gone out.

In his cell, a small, enclosed space with only the ice to visit him, he saw only what he could see. In his tiny room covered in bars, there were visions of terrible things, as greedy beasts feasted on his weakened, pathetic heart.

Harry screamed into the cold.

.o00o.

There was sudden lucidity in his dreams. He woke up surrounded by faces. He was in a chair with straps along his ankles, his waist, his wrists and his neck. He was chained to a chair that was chained to floor. Harry swallowed roughly, and his eyes adjusted to the light in the room. It was a big, overpowering room, full of people he did not know.

His head was pulled back, even farther than what it had been already, and something was pressed into his mouth. The liquid was cool, and he drank it, even though a part of him knew that this was an unidentified, potentially lethal potion. He found he didn't care much when his body relaxed.

"Name?" a voice barked at him.

"Harry."

"Full name."

"Harry James Potter."

"You are being convicted of treason, mass murder, and crimes against humanity, Mr. Potter. How do you plead?"

He thought on this. Treason? Well, sure, he'd exposed the Wizarding World and had played a dangerous game of deception with the Muggle World. He supposed that was treason. He had murdered many people, indirectly and directly. Quite a lot of them, actually. Mass murder sounded a bit right. It followed, then, that this would also be a crime against humanity, though Harry briefly considered his guilt on that matter. He had tried to do the right thing.

But it had been wrong, his mind supplied. The wrong way to go about it, possibly.

"Guilty," he said.

There was a ruckus then, and Harry took a moment to breathe in and out. He was coming back to himself; he was aware of where he was. This was his trial. He needed to be there. Was he there?

"The world would like to know, Potter, what your reasons were," the voice boomed.

_Reasons_, Harry thought. _Reasons_? His mind was waking up too slow to have an answer. He shook his head. There were a number of things he could respond with, but none of them were right. He shook his head again.

"Witness for the defense?" the voice went on.

"None, my lord," answered another.

None? _None_? There was something wrong with this, but Harry couldn't pinpoint what. The voices droned on and on, thankfully preventing him from falling asleep again. His mouth was dry, and he felt weaker than he ever had before. Like a bunch of bones in a sack. Where was he? The trial, the trial.

"...refused to provide a testimony, my lord. All of the witnesses we contacted..."

God, _now_he understood. A light seemed to come back into his eyes, fueled by disbelief. Not one person was defending him? Harry trembled. But that was okay, understandable even. He didn't need to be defended. It was ridiculous to hope for it. He didn't want them to defend him. Why was that again?

"...since there are no witnesses for the defense, this court will convene for sentencing, which shall be carried out immediately..."

The world needed a conviction, an execution to move on. To feel justified enough to progress. He had expected this. Harry had wanted no one to come to his aid because of this. He remembered.

Time passed slowly for Harry. He was still in that chair, surrounded by men and women. People had left, and now they were returning. There were sounds of footsteps, of chattering, a laugh. They descended back into their seats. The court was called to order.

He didn't pay much attention the voices then. They were saying guilty, over and over. Harry knew he was guilty – they didn't have to tell him. The great booming voice was back again, shocking Harry out of his daze.

"...sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss, to be carried out immediately. Mr. Potter, do you understand the conviction made by this court?"

He understood, but there was no use saying anything. They'd sentenced him to death. To death.

And fuck, was he happy about that. He smiled, an anticipatory, enthusiastic smile. He was going to die. There would be no more dreaming about terrible things. No more remorse. He smiled and they saw it, and they yelled.

"Take him away!"

He was being manhandled towards the door. It meant little, he was finally going to sleep, and sleep forever this time. He reckoned death would be warm. He needed some place warm.

They didn't put him back with the Dementors, but that was okay. They kept him in a room, a very white room, and he was told to wait. He laughed. As if he could go anywhere with the chains surrounding him? He was told to wait, and so he waited.

Another Auror came into the room, one he hadn't met before. Harry squinted up at him, and the Auror narrowed his eyes back. He felt the Dementor before it arrived. The cold inched along the floor and his body, and he shivered but was not afraid. This was what he wanted. He wanted...

The Dementor glided toward him, halting before his upturned face. Seemingly enraptured with the soul it was about to take. Harry felt his body rise with the sucking, for it had begun before the creature touched his lips. His chains could not prevent his ascent.

"_Expecto Patronum_!"

"Robards, what are you—!"

Harry hadn't realized he had closed his eyes. He opened them now. The Dementor was gone and he looked around for it, but a Patronus, a slim, glowing cat, prowled about Harry as the reason for the Dementor's vanishing. Harry watched as the Auror, Robards, swiped his wand down and the chains fell from his body. There was suddenly shouting in the corridor outside that Harry hadn't remembered walking down. A huge, roaring explosion ricocheted and vibrated the room. It woke Harry a bit, and he shook his head forcefully.

"Up," Robards commanded, grabbing his arm and moving him roughly to his feet. Harry followed the man to the door, and, as it opened, another blast shook the hall. Flames licked the walls, and there were people running to and fro to put them out. Screams sounded as the wall before them crunched inward, falling as rubble and fire.

Robards pushed him forward, through the wreckage, and Harry leaned back as a terrible roar echoed in the Ministry. A dragon, as white as Bo, stood in what used to be the Auror office. Beneath its large, clawed feet, bits of plaster and wood had collapsed and were still smoking.

The Auror shoved him toward the dragon, and Harry, though confused and a little frightened, got the picture. He didn't agree with it, though.

"No," he said to the Auror. "No!"

"Yes," Robards snapped. "Get on the fucking dragon!"

He didn't want to be saved. Death had seemed so goddamn welcoming, and here, a dragon was breaking him out? It was ridiculous. It wasn't what he wanted. "No, no, no," he repeated hysterically.

But there was no time for his refusal. Robards lifted him around the waist, as if he weighed nothing, and climbed atop the beast. Spells crashed into the dragon, but a hasty shield from Robards kept them from hitting the white hide and pearly underbelly. Harry did not struggle, but he felt something like tears drift down his face as he was flung on top of the smooth scales.

Robards kept a hand on his back as the dragon reared and roared one last time. They jolted into flight, rising quickly enough that Harry almost feared falling. Into the sky, they shot up and up until all Harry could see the blue and orange of a setting sun. They had done it. They had broken him out.

"Do not worry so, Dragon Speaker," the dragon said, familiar but unfamiliar. White. Tenebres wasn't white. But then the charm seemed to be wearing off. The color faded until the dragon he knew was before him. As black as night.

"Ten?" he whispered over the wind.

Dazed, Harry looked over at Robards in time to see his features change. In time to see brown hair transform into blond. Black eyes to grey. Draco.

Harry woke up.

.o00o.

They landed in a familiar field. He knew where he was, and possibly what he was doing there. He had an idea, at least. When Ten's wings stopped flapping and blowing about a strong, chilly wind, he managed to slide down his back and steady himself on the ground. A wash of dizziness disorientated him for a moment before he raised his eyes to look at the boy before him. Draco was dressed in Robards's Auror uniform, but he still_ very_much looked like himself. The same handsome face and figure, the same stoic expression. However, now he was looking at Harry as if he were a rabid animal, caged and cornered and collared. Harry did his best to stop his panting and look less shocked. It worked wonders.

"You're all right?" Draco asked, not bothering to be gentle.

Harry thought about this, knowing he must appear mad as he gazed off at nothing. At everything. "M'right," he answered.

Being awake didn't mean Harry was completely there. It would be silly to think so, given the terrible effects of the Dementors. He _wasn't_ all right, but, in the context that Draco was asking him...it would do. He felt as if he were very close to not being able to _think_again. He was dazed and sluggish enough that he was sure one great whiff of air would send him sprawling and back into dreamland. A place that could only be described as hell. He wasn't sure, though, whether or not it was the Dementors who had caused his nightmarish vision; whether it was his mind turning against him instead. Throttling him with a mix of real and fantastical images. Whatever it had been, he was glad to be away from it.

He felt more and more, and Ten and Draco lead him toward the bonfire as if he were journeying back to himself. The numbness that had overtaken his limbs was gradually receding, prickly and painful, but at least he _felt_. With every step he knew a rush of emotions, a little panic, a little peace, and quite a bit of despair. It had been his job to die today, and it hadn't happened. He had been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. He was found guilty. Why the fuck would they save him?

Why had no one defended him? It was what he deserved, that they would not show as witnesses. It was expected and not at all shocking. But it _hurt_ – fuck, it hurt – and where the _hell _was everyone who said they _cared _about him? Draco was there, his mind reminded him. Draco. He looked at the blond carefully. Draco was not a memory he had revisited in Azkaban. Draco hadn't been in Azkaban. Draco was _good_. Harry nodded to himself briefly and edged a little closer to the boy.

As they walked, Harry flexed his hands, stretching out the feeling into his muscles. It was good to feel again, even if he was sad that no one had defended him. He was mad too. Fucking insanely mad. Furious that they hadn't been at the trial and furious that he had even been helped in the first place. But he had to choose what to be mad or sad about. He didn't think he'd be able to handle anything if he was too torn between feelings. This way, that way, what way? Harry forcefully shook the thoughts from his mind, realizing that Tenebres was speaking to him.

"Perhaps, Dragon Speaker, you need a bit more healing to deal with this encounter," he was saying.

They had stopped, and Harry hadn't realized it at all. Having arrived next to the fire, Harry noticed that his icy hands were warming. He raised his palms towards the heat and basked in it. Beside him, Draco fidgeted, and he could feel those grey eyes running up and down his body. He didn't have the energy to confront that stare. He thought that perhaps he should have been embarrassed at his dirty, smelly state, but what was humiliation compared to the knowledge that he had been saved.  
_  
I was supposed to die_, he screamed to himself. _I am supposed to be dead right now_.

"You will live," Tenebres went on, seeming very apathetic. "I will need to access your mind, Dragon Speaker, if you are willing?"

He wasn't quite sure what Ten was talking about. The fire was moving elegantly, prettily, against the oncoming night, and, despite his anger that he was alive, he felt soothed with their presence. How odd it was to be comfortable. Only a short time in Azkaban had made him cynical. Had made him sure there would never be any comfort again. And, in his time there, underneath the visions and memories, Harry understood that half of his despair was loneliness.

God, he had never been more alone in all of his life.

He shivered at the thought of Azkaban. Draco appeared to notice and mistaken it for him being cold because Robards's cloak was suddenly draped across his shoulders. Draco clasped it and smoothed the wrinkles out, looking at him closely. Harry reached up and held onto the ends of it, biting his lip as he met Draco's stare.

He never wanted to go back to that prison. That hell. Death was his only chance of escaping it. If he were caught now, he would be back in that terrible cell with the terrible loneliness and the visions. The dreams. The blood. He shivered again. Harry was angry that the risk of going back was still possible. He was furious that he could not be properly furious with the boy in front of him. Not when his gaze consumed Draco like the starved person he was.

Harry reached out and touched Draco's neck. To make sure the boy was real. To make sure he was real himself. The skin was as soft as silk, and warm, so warm.

"Catch him," Tenebres said to them both, his voice loud in their minds. And then his assault on Harry's memories began.

They flashed forward and backward like a broken clock, hands landing on different moments that he didn't know he had coveted in his mind. Draco and he making love, speaking quietly, admitting affections, sometimes laughing, most of the time healing. Denny, joking with him, calling him names, loving him with everything he had, giving advice, dressing him down, seeing him and knowing him as only his father could. Bo, being Bo, teaching Bo, explaining others to him, holding Bo close and knowing he would always be there, even if he was gone. His friends, his family, his life. His good life.

Not everything had been perfect, but there were enough of the good things to bring him back to life. There were parts of him missing now, but he was as whole as he was going to get. There were horrors, terrible things that he had seen and done. They weren't forgiven. He could never be forgiven.

But he could try to live with it. Being alive, still, was possibly punishment enough.

These memories said as much. They also bled awareness into him. A shock that ran through his body, awakening old woes and a strong will. They healed him a little, though he was still broken a bit, but it helped, all the same. As the visions blossomed one after the other in his mind, he stitched himself back together slowly. They were crude fixings, the thread was visible and a bit of stuffing leaked out, but it would do. He would never be the same, but that was all right too.

"It's all right, all right," Draco was whispering to him. He had fallen during the onslaught, and Draco had caught him.

Harry looked up at those bright eyes and wondered why Draco felt he was in need of comforting words. Only then did he notice the wetness on his cheeks. He'd been crying.

"I'm okay," he said to Draco, suddenly sitting up on the wet grass and rising to his feet. He stumbled, and Draco grasped his arm to steady him.

"You're with us now, Harry?" Ten asked him, a concerned expression in his eyes. Harry frowned a bit, not used to Tenebres calling him by his name.

He nodded and swiped a hand across his cheeks. "I'm here," he confirmed.

He was there. Not all there, perhaps, but mostly. There was more energy in him, though most of it was expelled in being sad. He was upset, but he was happy. So happy that they were there with him. He turned to Draco and took him in.

When had he ever needed someone as much as he needed this boy? He reached out again, laying his hand on Draco's neck. "I'm happy to see you," he said, knowing he looked vulnerable but not caring.

Draco's mouth twitched. Before he could say anything, there was a quiet breath of air and another had joined them in the firelight. Griphook stood a little ways from them, staring impassively at their group. "I hope you're happy to see me," the goblin said, sounding wary.

Harry turned to him. "Hello, Griphook," he greeted, not removing his hand from Draco.

"We have something to discuss, you and I," Griphook told him, relieved that Harry hadn't struck out at him, or was he insane and unaware of who he was. Tenebres had helped him immensely, it seemed.

"Yes," Harry agreed, after a moment. "We do."

Draco grabbed Harry's hand off of his neck and held it, shifting closer. Harry turned his eyes on him. They felt wide and dependent. "I have to go," Draco said softly. "I have to go before I'm missed."

Harry did not like this, but he thought he understood. He looked down at the Auror robes in question.

"Robards will wake up in a moment, and I'd best be there to be adequately upset that you've gotten away. I'm the betrayed lover in our situation, did you know?" Draco said with a smirk.

Though it was meant to be lighthearted, Harry felt a small jolt inside of him at Draco's explanation. He had hurt Draco terribly before he'd been brought to Azkaban. He had fought with him and ignored him. Was Draco still angry at him?

His face must have been terribly open, because Draco seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "No, no," he whispered, loosely throwing his arms across Harry's shoulders. "Don't worry so much."

Harry would try not to. He looked at Draco closely as he pulled away from their embrace, just enough to stare back into Harry's greedy eyes. He kissed Harry then, softly and prettily, as if it were his first. He drew back and said, "I'll be giving you your last kiss, not anyone else. Not anything else."

He captured Harry's short sob with another caress of his lips. This time it was a kiss that told Harry that he had been missed. That his time away had been painful for Draco. Painful for them both.

"I'll come back, Harry, but I have to go now."

Even though he did not want Draco to leave so soon, he understood. The jittery feeling inside of him made him realize he didn't really believe Draco would be back, but at least he hoped. It was a rather foreign thing, and Harry put a hand on his waist to try and quell it. Draco got back onto Tenebres's back and shifted into a secure seat. Ten snuffled into Harry's hair, as Bo used to do.

"Be strong," Ten told him.

"I'll come back, all right?" Draco said to him, his eyes very bright.

Harry nodded, feeling lost. "All right," he murmured.

They were off into the night. Harry watched them go until Ten's dark scales made them invisible. He watched them go and clenched his empty hand, still warm from where Draco had held it. Finally, he turned to Griphook. The goblin nodded.

"It's time now," he said. "I will tell you this, Harry Potter. A man came to me one day and claimed that I would help a boy change the world for good."

Harry swallowed. "What did he say?"

"It was very short, vague conversation. You see, I have reason to believe this man visited another that day. He told me of a prophecy. It wasn't until later that I knew it was I, inadvertently, through my own actions, who had made that prophecy."

"I don't understand."

Griphook stared into the fire when he next spoke. "There was no god but the god within you. The choice to be your own man. It is just as strong as faith in something you cannot see."

Harry looked away. His heart was speeding up. It was going to burst.

"The man's name," Griphook went on. "He said it was Henry. Henry Brooks."

"Fuck," he gasped, wrapping his arms around himself and nearly crumbling. It would be easier just to crumble. To be destroyed. "Fuck!" he shouted, hating, loathing everything that was said. He had done...? God, it fucking hurt.

"You have to go back," Griphook said.

Harry felt madness rise and threaten to overpower him. "You can't expect me to do it!" he bellowed. "After everything. Everything! Go back and what? Change it? I'd do that, I'd fucking do that and more!"

The goblin did not reveal any of what he thought in his expression. "No," he said. "You will tell me to do as I have done. You will save a boy from death."

Hysterically, Harry threw his head back and laughed. "Wouldn't it be better? If he didn't have a task? If he was actually a good person?" he asked furiously.

"I imagine he would be a good person, yes," Griphook said. "Perhaps he would fulfill the first prophecy, become a hero. Live to be a good man. But nothing would change. There would be no freedom for me, and no freedom for his soul. The world would breathe better, but it would not be stronger. No, Henry Brooks, it would not be better if you were a good person."

Harry felt a sob unravel from his throat. He tried to hold it in, but everything was already so delicate and breakable. It came out loud and strong. "I can't do it, I can't—"

"You can, and you will," Griphook told him. "Do you remember how to Reach?"

This odd question stirred him out of his despair, if only briefly. "Reach?" he choked.

"Into a connection," he explained. "You made one for young Bo. You did the impossible. You must do it now."

"I don't know how to do it," Harry spat. His insides were twisting at the goblin taking his choice away. Ignoring his desire to change things. His desire to not have them remain the same.

"Will can overpower limits, Wizard," Griphook snapped back at him. "You were one of the greatest advocates of this belief."

"I was also a fucking fool," he hissed. "I believed in a lot of things that weren't real. None of it was real."

Griphook was silent for a moment. The crackle of the bonfire, the night sounds, and the wind were all that interrupted them. Harry told himself he wasn't waiting for Griphook's judgment, his acceptance of Harry's refusal, his denial that Harry was wrong. He was only catching his breath. That was all.

The goblin finally met his gaze. "In time, you may think differently, but, for now," he paused and grimaced, "you have to go back."

No, no, Harry thought. Go back and make sure his life was full of pain and loss? Go back and ensure countless deaths, forfeit his own soul for the unity of two worlds that would rejoice at his passing?

Yes. The answer was yes. Because despite everything the self-made task had brought, there was a good chance things had changed for the better. There was an equal chance they would be worse. But he still believed in the task, still had faith in his heart. Despite everything that had chipped away at him, he had enough of himself left to consider the good in his actions. What little there was of it.

And Harry was too shattered inside to be defiant. The plaster holding him together was just a quick fix. Nothing was really repaired. It seemed he had one last thing to do before he faded and floated away. Just one.

"I have to go back," he whispered, and the words were agonizing said aloud. As if thoughts were simply fake truths. It was harder to argue with something said out loud, for all to hear.

Griphook dipped his head in agreement. "You cannot change the past," he reminded Harry.

He squeezed his eyes closed. "No," he acquiesced.

"You have always been immune to boundaries, to rules and destinies. Do it now. Remember the feeling."

Harry remembered. With his gathering power, his body became nothing but a shade. A disguise to prevent reasoning and provoke action. There was a great heave of space and time, running behind him as if he were in a slingshot, and he was propelled into the past with a small whimper of sorrow. He stretched and contorted and itched until he was there and here in the now, but not the future.

Griphook stared at him expectantly.

.o00o.

This was the hard part. Speaking to the goblin hadn't been too terrible for him. It was later that he was sure he would break. Griphook's impassiveness at his message mirrored the apathy in Harry's tone. Coming to the past had abruptly turned around his panic and his despair. Or perhaps it was only his mind playing tricks on him, as it was wont to do.

In any case, it had helped that his own body was masked by shadow, unseen. He wasn't vulnerable to Griphook's intense stare, passing judgment on what he had to say.

_"There was a prophecy spoken," he had explained, controlled and calm. "By a Goblin," and here he smiled slightly._

_"And the words?"_

_"Quite telling, indeed," he sighed. "There's a boy – well, he'll change things, Griphook. He'll change the world. Your world. Help him."_

_"And how will I know who this boy is?"_

_He looked away. "My name is Henry Brooks," he explained. "You'll know."_

Another wish had taken him to another place, and before he could reconcile with being there again, he was faced with it head on. Harry trembled as he gazed down at a boy he hadn't seen in years.

Even then, at seven, he'd hardly looked at himself, especially not in those trying days at the Dursleys. Mirrors never did tell him much about the truth. The boy stared up at him, big green eyes still red with tears, his cheeks crimson in the dream-state, the fantasy Harry had created to do this.

The shadows fluctuated around his form, waving and slithering like smoke. He knew what he was meant to say.

"Harry?"

The little boy sniffed. "Who're you?"

"I'm going to give you a task," he said, his voice hitching with pain. "Can you promise to live to succeed?"

Frowning, the boy reached out to touch the shadows. He was always curious beyond reason. "Why can't I see your face?" the boy asked skeptically. "And where are we?"

"Perhaps I don't have a face," Harry countered a bit sarcastically. "And we're in your mind. You're dreaming."

"It's too real to be a dream," the boy argued, and his toes were scrunched in the grass and the dirt, as if affirming the impossible reality of his dream.

"I made it for you," Harry told him.

"Are you God?"

Harry started. He had believed, long ago, that the phantom in his dreams was someone higher than everyone and everything. He had believed that the shadows and their task had been an unmitigated proof of a God. Now, faced with his younger self, he thought upon that belief, that faith, and he tried not to dissolve. He felt like screaming.

"What do I have to do?" the little boy asked, awed. Having received no answer from Harry, the boy had provided his own. He choked.

"Unity is the only way to change things. You have to live, Harry, and you have to do everything you can to rebuild the world. It's in ruin, no matter what anyone says, and you can change things if you promise. Do you promise?"

"But I can't do anything!" the boy yelled, tears flooding his vision. "I'm not anyone, I'm just—"

"Harry," he interrupted, his heart tearing apart. "Even without the power to do it, your soul wouldn't ask for anything less. Fix it. Fix us. Promise?"

The little boy looked about himself, lost and unsure. But Harry was patient, and the boy was so open in his feelings, and finally, he turned back to the shadows and said, "I promise."

"Some things..." he paused and bit his lip. "Some things may happen. You may have to do a great evil to do a great good, but, in the end, it's all...worth it."

_Worth it? Was it worth it?_ Harry remembered Azkaban. His memories. Draco._ Perhaps it was._

"You may be hurt, Harry," he forced out, ready to leave. Ready to die. "But you've prevented worse. You'll change things for the better. Promise?"

"I promise," the boy said solemnly. "Though I really don't understand."

"Pick up the poem," he said more cryptically than he had wanted to. "Rely on your power. Be everyone and no one. Love them while you still can."

"No one loves me though," he admitted quite pathetically. "Haven't you seen—?"

"I've seen that, Harry, and more," he snapped, and then cooled. "It will get better. You'll have to realize that someone does love you...and you'll need to love them back. Do you promise?"

Night had fallen in the dream world. The moon made the little boy's face a puzzle piece, cast in light and darkness and real enough to touch. It was cold now, cold and black, and the little boy was shivering.

"I promise."

"Are you cold?"

"I'm always cold."

Fire obscured the landscape, burning mountains in its path. Harry let it run, he let the little boy play until all that remained was a sea of heat. It rose and rose until the vision collapsed, and he was outside Number Four, watching it burn for the third time. The past first, and the present last. Yet still, the same, all-consuming fire.

.o00o.

One last wish, and Harry flew again, through passageways carved by power. Back to where he no longer wanted to be. Griphook was there, staring up at him without emotion or pride. It was done.

"What do I do now?" Harry whispered to him, closing his eyes.

Griphook blinked very slowly. "You go away," he said, not maliciously, but sagaciously. "You go away until the changes you've brought about make sense to everyone else but you and me."

"Salvation?" Harry breathed out a laugh. "It's a funny thing to be thinking about, really."

"Salvation for everyone but you," Griphook said. "Thank you for what you did. For what you gave up."

Harry sobbed out a laugh. "_Fuck_you."

Griphook seemed sad, and maybe a bit bitter. "There are still some that will stand by you. It may be a long time before others reconcile, you understand."

"Will I ever see them again?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

Harry finally turned to him. "I don't want to wait," he said plainly, stoically.

"I can't make that decision for you. I can't say what years of exile will do to your soul. My words were only prophetic, Mr. Potter, because you sought a purpose. You did this in your desperation to be seen."

"And I wasn't, was I?" he concluded painstakingly. "There're no answers that I didn't answer myself."

Griphook nodded. "The only question left for you is whether or not you were a piece or the player."

"And I'm bloody back to square one. Though I think I can _safely_say I didn't have any control to begin with."

"Then it's time to let it go," Griphook said forcefully. "Accept that you won't know until you're ready."

"Like everyone else."

"Like everyone else," he agreed. Griphook reached into his pocket and held something out to him. Harry looked down and gaped.

"Wasn't it—?"

"Tenebres had it. Bo left it that day. Take it now. We've set up everything so that you can safely and _quietly _live where no one can find you."

Harry frowned. "You ask a lot from me," he said, feeling helpless.

"Movers are victims to extreme demands, yes," he retorted coldly. "But my gratitude is in this exile. Take my thanks, Harry Potter."

A thanks tinged with maliciousness. Something, Harry knew, that, in the books of history for decades and centuries, would be a familiar feeling in regards to the boy who had started it all. But legends, good and bad, were still legends, and Harry recognized the thanks for what it was: a bid for liberty.

And that, he could do.

Harry grasped the old amulet tightly and left his world to the world. And all that remained behind was everything. And as he stood outside the house he would have to dwell in for as long as it took for others to forgive – a house he thought would be a cupboard – he couldn't help but smile, just a bit.

Despite his despair, it was done. There was something ahead of him he could not predict, and though it frightened and worried him, Harry found that he was untied by fate for the first time in his life. Bitterly, he recognized that all he had ever truly wanted was before him. At a terrible, unforeseen price.

In this pain, there was freedom, and, unchained, he would settle and begin anew. As would a fire forever boundless.


	28. Epilogue

A/n: Thanks, everyone!

Ana: sorry I made you cry! I hope you enjoy this last chapter. Much love to you, and thanks again for the wonderful support. It's been awesome!

Amazonia: congrats on finishing this monster project with me. You're the best. Forever and ever and ever.

* * *

Panic Switch

Epilogue

The entirety of his world was now this house. It was a lovely, quaint place, admittedly; though he was restricted by mind and matter here. The expanse of the yard had yet to be explored, mainly because Harry wasn't curious enough about the neighboring forest to journey into it. Maybe sometime later he would, and he would likely find a village of some kind, or maybe a lake. Every morning, he watched the sun rise and was sure he was in the most beautiful place in the world. This exile seemed like paradise.

He woke by and spoke to a house elf by the name of Mim, who was a funny little thing that had been sent to take care of him. She laid out a proper breakfast for him, and, as he ate, he would look out his window and greet the beginning of another day. He settled for puttering about the house, then, walking to and from different rooms and halls.

It was a small place filled with tiny, pretty windows. There was an attic. Harry liked the attic quite a lot. The curious vines from the garden had inched all the way up to the window and, further, to the highest point of the house. When he looked down, there were wildflowers leading a wayward path to the bigger garden of the forest. Sometimes he would see red hawks perched in the trees, feeding and preening in what seemed like forever-lasting sunlight. It didn't seem to ever rain.

His bedroom was comfortable. Simplistic. At night, he left the shades open and let whatever was visible of the moon shine through. A cool breeze, enough to ruffle his hair and blush his cheeks, was perpetual here. The sounds of life were loud at all times of the day. He was soothed by them, and maybe a little less lonely.

After his restless movement through the house, he would gather himself and go down to the kitchen. It was a lovely room full of essentials, and it had a dining table big enough for two. Despite his offers, Mim never sat with him during meals. She would tug on her ears when Harry asked, endearing herself to him more, before popping away to do whatever it was she did while Harry was here. His lunch was always good – light enough for him, and tasteful. Afterward, he would go outside onto the porch and smoke a cigarette.

Sometimes squirrels came up to him, asking for food. He laid out cashews on the railing, and they scrambled up and clutched the treats in their little claws, alternatively gazing at their prize and then, suspiciously, at him. He was in a mountainous area, that much was clear. It was still winter, and, by this, he could discern he was north, but it wasn't cold enough to be Scotland, and the air didn't smell like the sea. He was somewhere likely landlocked. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

When he was tired of thinking of that, he went back into the house and into the library. It was rather compact, but full of books both magical and not. Harry liked the variety, though he never read them. He would run his hands across their bindings over and over. Some were leather, some were paper and board. There was a desk, for letter writing, probably. Harry hadn't received any letters to reply to.

By the time he was done, the sky would turn pink. He would return outside to watch the sun go down while drinking a cup of tea that Mim had brought him. No matter how little he ate them, she would insist on cakes and biscuits with his tea. Harry liked to laugh with her, though Mim scolded him when he didn't take her seriously. As the sun set, he would think about very little. He would be happy that it wasn't raining, that it hadn't in all the days he had been there. The weather told him he wasn't in England, he wasn't home. But this could be home as well, if it were not much of a prison.

Mim would herd him inside when the crickets started singing. His dinner was filling and large in proportion to his other meals. He would make his way through it, slowly but surely. After dinner, he lit the fireplace and sat in the parlor. He kept the window open, despite Mim's worry he would catch a cold. A nightcap waited for him at about ten o'clock. He sipped it as he polished Denny's gun.

It was the only thing in the house that was truly his. There were new clothes in his closet, books he had never read or owned, food he hadn't bought, trinkets from some odd place or another. But when he had arrived, the gun was sitting on the table as if it had come back to him all on its own. The soothing act of handling the gun always lulled him into a doze. He would finish his drink, stub out his smoke, and stoke the fire.

He hesitated at his bed, every night.

In sleep, the thoughts he would not entertain during the day came to him. His dreams were never peaceful. His discontent in slumber did not wholly follow him into the day, but he could count on the torture at night. More than once, he would wake with the whisper of a scream on his lips. More than once, he would be awakened crying silently, though he did not know why. Mim would come in while he stood by the bed.

"Master Harry is needing sleep," she would tell him, pulling back the blankets. "Is late, Master Harry. Sweet dreams."

She said the last part without being cruel. His dreams would never be sweet, but she always hoped they would be. Harry could tell. Obediently, he would climb into bed and shut out the light. And, in the morning, after a night of terror, he would lie in bed and wonder if he should even bother getting up. Eventually, he would, and his day would start all over again.

And then it changed.

Mim seemed very happy that morning. She poured Harry's tea as she chattered away about this and that. Her comfort with him always cheered him. Before she left, Mim gave Harry a stack of envelopes. He breathed in deeply as he stared at them, not daring to hope.

"Master Harry is getting letters!" she said exuberantly. "Master Harry is allowed to write back!"

Mim often spoke of what Harry was and was not allowed to do. He speculated that someone he cared about was giving these orders to the house elf, but it usually annoyed him, all the same. The letters didn't seem to be dated, and his fingers twitched to open them. To read something about the world he had left behind. Mim was ever vigilant, however.

"Master Harry must be eating first," she told him sternly. "You is reading them in the study later."

So he ate, quicker than usual, and he was soundly chastised for it. He felt more alive than he had in the month or so he had been there. Harry was tempted to laugh as he raced to the library. His hands were shaky as he opened the topmost letter. He counted and saw that there were four in total.

He opened it, but nervousness made him stop before he read. Harry placed a paperweight down on the rising parchment and took a deep breath. He reached for Denny's gun and took it apart as he read.

_Dear Harry,_

_The moment I was allowed to write to you, I didn't wait. There's been so much that's happened while you've been gone. So much that I'm not sure where to start. I'm honestly just glad to be able to contact you. We all miss you very much. Molly and I were just talking about you last night, actually. Do you remember when you and Ron lost Ginny in the field? We were laughing, because Ginny said the one thing she would miss most about the Burrow was that pantry. _

He couldn't help but smile. They had been playing Hide-and-Seek in the field, and Ginny had disappeared. There was a panic, and then they had thought to look in the pantry. Though Ginny's fervor to find the perfect hiding spot had worked, she'd actually been more attracted to the sweets hidden there by Molly. Ron had told him, later, when they were all grown up, that Ginny still stole away in there for solitude, with a pack of biscuits to munch on.  
_  
We're getting by. Sirius has helped fund the rebuilding of our home; he, along with an anonymous benefactor that I'm sure you know about. This letter, by the by, is also from your godfather, who is currently dictating what I should say and when. I imagine he'll soon criticize my tone and sentence structure. _

Though Harry was understandably confused about the benefactor Arthur mentioned, he shook off his curiosity and read on.

_Cassie seems to be doing much, much better. Her nightmares have stopped, and, what with the boys at Grimmauld, she appears to be thriving. Unfortunately, she's taken quite a liking to Fred and George. I'm wary of what they're teaching her. Oh, yes, the boys are here. Ron and Ginny remain at school, of course, but Charlie and Bill, along with the twins, are helping with the rebuilding. Charlie finds himself with more time off now, considering all that is happening in the world. Bill's only just gone back to work._

_And I suppose you'd like some information on that, yes? You were always infernally curious. Well then, where to start? I believe you will be interested to know how the Ministry is faring. So far, Harry, things are moving quickly. Scrimgeour is still in office, of course, but he's been threatening to step down after a little tiff with the President of the United States. Apparently, the two are evenly matched in terms of temperament and tolerance. The Prime Minister is fond of Kingsley, rather, who has already taken over the diplomacy between the Muggles._

_There're a few new divisions in the Ministry. The Muggle Relations and The Muggle Ambassadorial Police are the newest and most proficient additions. I myself have been promoted. My division is now a cooperative sect of the Ambassadorial Police. It's quite nice, honestly. I've got my own office. Along with these, there've been adjustments to the Muggle government as well._

_When I last spoke with Kingsley, he was picking out a team to permanently relocate to the States to work with a team of Wizards for the President there. The treaty that was signed has calmed the media extravagantly, and other countries still at war have seen a very happy decline in violence. There are still people being killed, both Muggle and Wizard, but, so far, the combined Police and Auror forces are managing quite well. We all know that's Kingsley's doing, really._

_As for the rest of us: As I mentioned before, Bill has his job back at Gringott's. It's up and running again, though many things have changed. The goblins have taken over the bank, and they are very happy to be in charge. The interest rates have climbed, of course, but that's to be expected with goblins. Only the pure-bloods are discontent with the new proceedings at the bank, but no one really listens to them anymore. The vaults are Warded completely now. Where Gringott's was impossible to break into before, it is now unthinkable, and likely a torturous miscalculation for any thief. Bill's been busy with that, you might say._

_Along with these changes, there has been another interesting development: Dragons are now considered Conscious Creatures, and they are protected under law. This new category of beings also includes Werewolves and Vampires (though they don't seem to care at all about their protected status). The Romanian Reserve is now more of a...diplomatic outpost. Charlie is waiting for the Ministry to call the handlers back into the field once the negotiations are over. He's anxious to return, given he had such a hard time leaving the reservation. Apparently, a Norwegian Ridgeback by the name of Norbert was unhappy to see Charlie go._

_Molly is cheerful that her boys are here and excited that Ron and Ginny will be with us for the Easter holiday. The Burrow threatens to be finished and ready for us to move in by then. In the summer, we hope to play host to numerous friends and family. As part our family, we were very much hoping you would join us. We would take all the necessary precautions, of course, and you would only have to disguise yourself some of the time. Please consider it._

_In the meantime, it looks like everything is finall__y beginning to die down. There're some places, like the Ministry, that were easily repaired. But there's still a bit of rebuilding to come. Luckily, we're working together on this, not arguing about this and that (bar Scrimgeour's barney with the President, of course)._

_Things are settling fast, so Molly and I have hope that you'll be with us this summer. Perhaps they'll have given up searching for you by then. I know Kingsley isn't trying too hard, though Gawain Robards is a bit of a fanatic about it, ever since they found him Obliviated and Confonded in the lady's loo._

_Write me, Harry, and let me know that you're well! We do miss you, very much._

They had all signed the bottom, including Cassie, whose writing was wiggly and barely comprehensible. Harry liked this very much, and he smiled as he put the letter aside and went on to the next one. This letter made him laugh.

Ron went on and on about how school was particularly boring without Harry there. He was struggling with exams at the moment, so couldn't Harry use his Invisibility Cloak and help him a bit with the answers? The most surprising news in the letter, besides Ron's apparent nonchalance with Harry, was that Draco had not shown back up to school. Rumor had it that the boy was too distraught to return. Ron tentatively asked if this was true, but Harry had no answer for him.

He briefly shuffled through the letters and did not recognize Draco's writing. Perhaps it was true.

The ache inside of him was counterproductive. He wanted to read his messages with good cheer, since they were the first he had gotten so far. Later, maybe, he could dwell on Draco.

Harry took a deep breath and set aside Ron's missive, grabbing up the next one and sliding it open. He smiled. This one was from Mina and Alejandro. Harry briefly wondered if they ever did anything separately before he began to read.

_Harry,_

_You'll be happy to know we're allowed to contact you again. I was irritated all these weeks, not being able to write to you, so now that I'm not irritated, I can appropriately compose a letter to you. In my first unsent draft of this letter, there was much cursing, and it was entirely in Russian. Alejandro seemed to think it wasn't satisfactory._

_I would hope that you are well. Perhaps living the life of luxury? We were assured that you had everything you could want, wherever you are. I know it won't be enough. Seclusion doesn't suit you. Or maybe it does? Andro is of the mind that it would appeal to you after all those years of war. He's rather sure the rest and relaxation would do you well. I think you must be restless. You're a man of my own heart, after all, and we're seldom happy with inaction._

_We suppose it could be worse, though. You could be in prison or dead. Exile sounds better than that, of course. I hope you're eating, and not drinking too much. I'd be flat drunk if I were isolated. Andro's just told me I'm not being very supportive. I'm not sure why I put up with him, honestly._

_After fishing for details on your escape, we have to applaud that lover of yours. The Dragon King claims to have killed the beast that helped you escape, and Mr. Malfoy has assured an impressive alibi to keep him out of suspicion. He was ruthless, my dear. To prevent your execution from going public, young Draco managed to spend quite a bit of his father's money to have the execution private. Do not worry, though; apparently, it was an anonymous benefactor who appealed for a speedy hanging. The same benefactor, I do believe, who gave so much to the goodly charity for those who have lost their houses in the war. Draco assures us he merely helps your Weasleys because he's madly in love with you and is now certifiably insane. I think it's romantic. _

_All of the accomplices to your escape are not even suspect, that'__s how well your lover has done. In recent weeks, he has taken on the status of a bereaved and betrayed lover. He acts quite well, truthfully. Andro got quite the laugh out of it._

_Besides that, your trail has gone cold. We think it has something to do with that Kingsley fellow, but people don't tell us much. We've stomped about__at your Ministry recently, since Alejandro is an Ambassador now (he's not at all qualified, whereas I am, and I wasn't even offered a position), and we like the new adjustments. Andro says I'm being bitter now, but I'll just ignore him and go on._

_There's been trouble in China, but it's starting to settle now. There doesn't seem much that can be done with Iraq or Pakistan. But they're used to running around fighting with each other, so none of us are very concerned. Things are better than how you left it – that is what I'm trying to say. Spain kept out of it enough to be smug; in fact, they've taken up supplying for the workers who are rebuilding internationally. Getting rich is what they're doing. Russia, my Russia, is thriving. After the bombs, we were rather upset, but after we showed our teeth a bit, the United Nations has been very cooperative. They just sent me a case of wine and cheese yesterday. I'm counting on getting a submarine by the time I'm done taking advantage of their placations._

_Oh, and the United Nations is under a remodeling, of sorts, as well, but then, who isn't? You'll be happy to hear that each representative from each nation has to bring along their resident Wizard leader. It has caused much arguing, considering some Magical nations don't really have a leader. Some parts of South America are holding elections, but China continues squabbling about who is in control while alternatively trying to kill their partners. Lunacy, I say. Alejandro just says they need to grow up a bit._

_But enough about that. I'm afraid I will need you to write a letter back to me before I am consumed with irritation, and I rage at Andro more. I grow tired of his lectures._

_One thing we would like to establish is that we are proud of you. The world is becoming a better place, Harry, whether you believe it or not. I think you definitely had the right of it, and Alejandro keeps to his faith and claims you're a messiah of sorts. He's a bit weird, our Andro. I expect your letter tomorrow. That is an order._

_Yours,_

_Mina Novikov_  
_Alejandro Guillermo_

_P.S. When your elf...thing returns tomorrow, I'll give you a bottle of this Chateau Lafitte stuff. It's not bad._

The grin on his face was brighter than he could ever remember it being as he shuffled the letter aside. He was very happy that Mina was well. She sounded quite the same. Unruffled, as usual, but perhaps a bit more joyful. They were good friends to him, and he briefly thought upon that. It wasn't often that he thought of his friends. It wasn't often that he appreciated them. Now he did, though. Now, he believed his good mood might just keep the nightmares at bay.

But he wouldn't hope too much for it, of course.

The last letter was, surprisingly, from Griphook. Of all the people Harry expected to hear from, the goblin was not among them. For some strange reason, Harry believed the last he would see of Griphook was on the day he had escaped. Perhaps it was because the being was rarely sentimental, and he could never be described as a friend or confidante. Curious, he unstuck the Gringott's wax seal and read the contents.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_As I'm sure you've noticed, you are not necessarily lacking anything in that house of yours. However, it has come to my attention that you would be pleased with the ability to buy any other miscellaneous objects that I have not thought of. Mim is in control of your accounts. Please inform her of what you would like to buy, and she shall fetch it for you._

_The Ministry has placed everything in your possession under frozen accounts here at Gringott's. Yet, it comes as no surprise that I now control everything that goes on in this bank. Your vaults maybe accessed, to a limit, so that we do not draw suspicion. Any purchases will be approved by me before Mim grants them to you. Here, in your vault, a number of artifacts will be kept safe. Among them, your wand and cloak. I took the initiative of placing the stone with them. If this vault is ever opened entirely, it will be your decision, Mr. Potter. Goblins have no responsibility to Wizards, sir, and we are not the law._

_I look for__ward to doing business with you.  
_

_Goblin Griphook  
Head of Gringott's Council  
Diagon Alley  
London_

Harry simply had to laugh. Griphook, for all of his grumpiness, was a conniving, clever little bugger. And thoughtful, too, he reckoned, glancing at the smokes and decanter of scotch. He would not limit Harry's habits, it seemed. Which told Harry quite a bit about who was allowing him what. Whoever was housing him and keeping him safe knew he would need to be kept happy. Whether because he was volatile when inactive, or simply because they cared enough about him to provide for him. Maybe both.

He entertained an idea of who it was, but threw the speculation aside hastily. There had been no contact from his lover. Harry would not hope too much or too little. His hands had moved quickly as he read, and the gun beside him was now back together and gleaming. He glanced at it briefly.

Mim managed to get him out of the study, and he enjoyed a light lunch, more carefully eaten, given his pensive mood. Afterward, he returned to his desk and replied to each letter, feeling light and cheerful as he signed the bottoms. He could not think of asking Mim to purchase anything, though it was pleasant to have the means.

By dinner, his happiness was declining, and by the time he was standing beside his bed once more, he was afraid the letters had provided an unwelcome drawback. He knew his dreams tonight would be more like memories.

Another day passed, and one after that. Harry kept to the routine he had humored before the letters had arrived. He thought, rather sadly, that he would ask Mim to purchase more feed for his squirrels. They seemed less suspicious of him every day, which he thought was a grave mistake on their part.

Denny's gun went through the stages of being apart and being whole. His scotch ran out, but more bottles appeared in its wake. The sun rose and the moon rose and each day went by, and he wondered if anything would change. It rained one day, and Harry was cheered to see it. Its tomorrow was brighter, as if to make up for the weather it'd had yesterday.

And then, a month and a half after his exile, there was a knock on his door. Harry stared at it, scared, since Mim wasn't around, and he was otherwise rather defenseless. Then he thought of Denny's gun and quickly grabbed it up. The knock came again.

His worry was for naught, it seemed, for, when he opened the door, it was only Draco. Only Draco.

It was _Draco_.

The gun dropped, useless, and he beamed like he never had before, not in all of his eventful life. Draco smiled back.

.o00o.

The room was bathed in moonlight. Every now and again, a stray cloud would dim the glow and everything would look smaller. Closer. The tops of the trees lit up like lights, as if they were a city at night. Harry watched them shine and let the moon cast shadows upon him.

A pleasantly cool breeze seemed to lift his naked skin. He soaked in the blaze and turned to look back at the open door to his room. At the bed where Draco slept. In the hall, before the door to the outside world, the gun still lay on the floor. Denny's gun.

Harry moved away from the window and slowly picked it up. In the still quiet, the peaceful world at night, Harry held it in his hand and thought of its weight. He thought of its owner. His possession and all he had wanted, long ago.

He glanced at the open door once more. All he desired was already here, and that mattered, perhaps more than the past. Harry was urged, by some sort of happiness, to go back to bed. To slide beneath the cool coverings beside his greatest achievement.

A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. With the moon as his only witness, he placed the gun in a drawer and turned the key. With the promise of sleep in sight, he moved towards his room and shut the rest of the world away. He'd left the key in there, a visible temptation, but knew he would never open that door again.

Maybe there would never be redemption. Maybe nothing would ever be the same. But there was a new liberation in all that he did. No matter that he had believed the house his chains, Harry came to realize there were no limits but what he made for himself. And one day he would be free. And knowing this, now, meant he was already unbound. There was a new part of him to discover. In truth, everything he had ever wanted was now unlocked, and it would be so, as long as there was freedom.

And so he would remain.


End file.
